


Reunions

by ruff_ethereal



Series: Two To Get In Trouble [5]
Category: Descendants (2015)
Genre: Dark Past, Gen, Major Original Character(s), Mild Language, Original Character-centric, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Abuse, Post-Canon, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-05-19 10:11:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 60,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5963508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruff_ethereal/pseuds/ruff_ethereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Discovering your missing father or mother after 16 or so years is bound to be a life-changing, difficult experience, for both parent and child. In Mal's case, it even changes the history of all of Auradon forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dearly Beloved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magenta_sunrise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magenta_sunrise/gifts).



> Takes place after the events of the four other stories in the "Two To Get In Trouble Series," and "The Trials and Perils of the Girlfriend Gauntlet," but is not a direct sequel for the latter. You don't need to have read it to understand the events here, but some important facts:  
> \- Ben and Mal have broken up.  
> \- Mal and Evie are a couple.  
> \- This story takes place several months post-canon.  
> \- Ben has been slowly bringing in people from the Isle of the Lost on work visas, or granting them certain pleasures like tickets to the annual School League Tourney Tournament.

She recognized him at first sight, but he didn’t even remember her in the slightest. She wasn’t mad, betrayed, or hurt—she knew that he had been so young when they were separated, and so much had happened between then and now.

Fifteen years. Fifteen long, _painful_ years, they’d been apart, and now they were finally together again. She had stayed up the entire night before wondering, worrying, opening the box that contained his present, wondering if it should stay in there, or if she should give it to him herself.

But now, it was far too late for that: the guards and his highness Benjamin were escorting them to meet the rest of the Fighting Knights, all lined up in their tourney gear, helmets off so you could see their faces.

She almost cried when she saw him. He had changed so much, grown from the not-so-little chubby boy she knew him as into a powerful and handsome man. Even the aura about him was different, so proud, so fulfilled, so _happy_ , things the Isle of the Lost had robbed him off.

She choked back her tears.

King Benjamin stopped. “Ma'am, are you okay?”

She smiled. “Just something in my throat, your highness, I'm fine.” She lied.

King Benjamin nodded, and started introducing the rest of his teammates.

She kept a smile on her face, her introductions polite, until she came up to Jay, the last in line. Right then, she couldn’t keep it up for any longer, and her eyes started watering.

Ben stopped in the middle of introducing Jay. “Something wrong, ma’am?”

Jay chuckled. “I think she’s a real big fan of me, and she can’t believe she’s finally seeing me in person for the first time.”

She smiled and laughed with him. “Oh, it’s actually the second or third time, if I remember right.”

The look on Jay’s face changed into confusion. The others looked at him, but when he let them know he was just as clueless, all their eyes turned back to her, asking for explanation. She just pulled out the gift she had in her pocket, a simple necklace made out of string and coloured glass, glued together and smoothed down till it resembled a precious gemstone.

Dumbstruck, Jay bowed down and let her slip it around his neck. A wide, uncontrollable grin spread out on her face as she brushed his hair back, until it was sitting neatly on top of his jersey and glimmering in the lights of the hallway.

“It's a blue jay,” she said as her tears started to fall. “The bird I love, the bird I named you after.”

Jay blinked. Long buried memories assumed forgotten suddenly surged back up. “... Mama…?” He whispered, his own cheeks turning wet.

She sniffed, and opened her arms. “It’s me, Jay. I’m back.”

He rushed forward and pulled her into a hug, lifting her right up off the ground. She squealed and laughed, before she wrapped her own arms around his back and nestled her chin on his shoulder. Rivulets of tears streamed down their cheeks, happiness that just couldn't be contained.

“My, you’ve gotten so _big!_ And so strong, too!” She cried, before she let out another peal of laughter.

“That's just the start of it—I’ve also gotten _pretty_ darn good at Tourney!”

“Oh? Better show me then, son, because trust me, a lot of men are all talk and no show!”

Jay chuckled as he put her back down to her feet. “Trust me, mama,” he said as he put his hands on her shoulders, “we’re going to win this match. For you.”

She smiled, stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “I don’t doubt it. Now come on, the game’s starting in five minutes; you all wouldn’t want to be disqualified for being late, would you?”

Jay smiled back. “Right.” He gave her another hug, tucked the blue jay charm safely inside his jersey, before he turned to his teammates. “Come on, guys! We’ve got to play the best game we've ever had and win this match—it’s the first one my mama’s ever attended live!”

The rest of the team raised their hands or threw their helmets into the air as they cheered, before they caught them and put them on, grabbed the rest of their equipment, and marched out of the hall and into the field, looking more even determined to win than usual.

She, the guards, and her fellow tourney fan from the Isle followed after them, parting ways as they reacehd the field and the floodlights nearly blinded them. The players took their spots on the field or behind the dragon cannon, she made her way to her specially reserved box seat.

Suddenly, Ben double backed, causing a commotion among the crowds as he rushed back toward her and up the stairs. “Uh, ma’am, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name?” He asked, a little breathless.

She smiled at him, one of the few honest ones she’d given in her entire life….

… But before she could answer, Coach Jenkins yelled at him to get back the field.

Ben frowned, silently told her he'd be back, before he turned around and scurried back down to his spot beside Chad. She smiled at him once more, and continued on her way up to her seat, eyes firmly on Jay as the opening act got out of the field and the ball was thrown into the kill zone.

Their opponents that first match of the season were the Arendelle Wendigos, one of their fiercest and most dangerous opponents. Their giant defenders were all too willing to thunder down the field and knock them aside like twigs or just run them underfoot, which was why they were called the “Yetis.” Their forwards were fast, fierce, and unpredictable with their passing and scoring, showing everyone how they earned the nickname the “Blizzards.” Their dragonner's shots were plenty and unpredictable, with a special member of their team reloading the gun almost as fast as they were shooting, keeping up the infamous Arendelle “Hailstorm.” And their goalie, the “Glacier,” was more than capable of stopping whatever shots they tried to make on their net, almost as impossible and difficult to get pass like a real one.

The roar from the crowds was deafening, the people of Arendelle using every last bit of lung capacity they had to cheer for their sons, nephews, and friends; on the other side, the people of Auradon City turned blue in the face and nearly fell out of their seats as they were not about to be outdone in their home territory, Kalila especially adamant that her cheers for her son didn't get drowned out. The sound was beaten only by the bellows and roars of the Wendigos as they charged and tackled their opponents, showing them what they meant by the first half of their motto, _“My voice is my violence.”_

However, the Fighting Knights didn't follow the second half, _“My foes will cower at triumph's shout!”,_ playing just as hard, deftly maneuvering around them, or meeting them head-on. And if they were the ones being knocked down, they got back up on their feet and into the game.

“Looks like 8 is the Fighting Knights' lucky number today, ladies and gentlemen, because Jay is just tearing up and down the field, dodging the Hailstorm without so much as a scratch, taking on the Yetis and winning!” The announcer cried during the first quarter, their voice barely heard over the cheers of the crowd. “He is a man possessed today, and it looks like his demon is eager to win this game!”

By half-time break, the normally calm and confident Wendigos were looking concerned, the score at an even 5-5. But the Fighting Knights were all nursing their bruises or trying to get the world to stop spinning, while Coach Jenkins substituted their powerhouses for the speedier and smaller reserves.

“I'll be honest with you, boys: it looks like we might not win this one.” Coach Jenkins as he paced in front of the bench. “But that's okay! Always remember this is only the _first_ match-up of the season, and we've got three more games to make it to divisions; don't just think of winning this one game at the cost of the tournament!”

“But coach, we have to win this one!” Jay cried. “It's the first match my mama's ever watched—we can't lose!”

Coach Jenkins walked over to him, put his hands on his shoulders, and looked him in the eyes. “I know, Jay.” He said softly. “But think about it: what's going to make her happier? Seeing you win this one match, or being with you and the rest of the boys when you all take home the tournament?

“You have to know how to pick your battles if you want to be a real winner.”

Jay looked like he was about to start shouting, before he frowned, and nodded. “Got it, coach.”

“Good. Now you get ready to get back on the field; when this game is over, win or lose, I want your mama to see you out there on that field, not on the bench!”

Jay blinked, then smiled. “Thanks, coach.”

“Don't thank me,” Coach Jenkins replied as he gestured to the stands, towards the boxes.

Jay looked, she waved and smiled at him. She would have called out him, if she hadn't lost her voice.

He shouted for her instead, yelling, “I love you mama! Just watch, we're gonna win this one!” at the top of his lungs.

Halftime ended, the players got back on the field, and things quickly took a turn for the worst. With the Wendigo's best players still on the field, and the whole team still more than able to charge and play as hard as they did earlier, the Fighting Knights were at severe disadvantages in both skill and size. Their substitutions just couldn't move fast enough, or even close to the rampaging Wendigos without getting knocked to the side or just run over, their opponents barely slowing down.

The start of fourth quarter, the score was at 10 Knights, 13 Wendigos. It was a lead that they could have overcome if they were at full-strength, had all of their best players on the field, and were more than a little lucky. But they were already severely drained, Chad was suffering a bad case of “frostbite” when he failed to dodge the Wendigo's dragonfire, and fortune was not on their side that day.

The kinghts kept on playing as hard, but it was clear to everyone that they were going down fighting, rather than turning the tables, the match ended with the Knights 11, the Wendigos 17.

The Wendigos and their side of the stadium erupted into cheered and nearly deafened everyone there and the area around them; the Knights just hung their heads, smiled at each other, and patted their backs while a light rain of snowflakes made by Queen Elsa herself fell over the field.

The Wendigos were, as always, incredibly courteous and friendly to their opponents, be they the winners or losers; they were careful not to clap the Knights on their backs too hard, offered some of the more bruised players a shoulder to lean on or someone to carry them all the way back to their locker rooms, and their captain Lindberg was all too happy to remind Ben that they were free to bring friends and family to their victory party later.

“Better hurry, though, food and drink goes fast,” he said with a chuckle before he split for the aftergame interview.

She was waiting for the Knights when they got back into the hall; guards were holding her back, telling her her ticket didn't give her locker room access, but stood down when Ben told them to. She wasted no time rushing over to Jay, throwing her arms around him and pressing her head to his chest.

She pulled away when she felt something hard dig into her cheek.

Jay reached into his jersey and pulled out the blue jay charm. The glass was cracked, but still, it was in one piece.

She chuckled. “Just like the real thing...” She muttered.

Jay smiled. “Yeah…” Then, he frowned. “Sorry we didn't win the match, mama.”

She laughed. “What are you apologizing for? You were _amazing_ out there! You were _all_ amazing out there! I got to see you play—live! And I'm with you, right here, right now...” Her eyes started watering again. “It doesn't matter if you won or lost...”

Jay quietly pulled her to his chest, patting her back as she wept once more.

“Excuse me, ma'am?” Ben asked as he sheepishly stepped in. “Sorry to interrupt your moment, but Jay's still got practice and other duties to attend to.”

She pulled away and nodded. “Right, right… sorry.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

Jay gave her a quick squeeze. “I'll see you later, mama.”

She leaned up and gave him another kiss on the cheek. “I'll see you later, son.”

She walked away with sweat stains all over her dress and smelling strongly of it besides, but frankly, she didn't mind.

It was _more_ than worth being with her son again.

* * *

Mal and Evie were waiting for the Fighting Knights in the lobby leading out of the field. They smiled and waved as Carlos and Jay broke off and came towards them, but their lips curled into frowns as they saw the unfamiliar woman coming with the boys.

“ _Geeze,_ Jay, decided you preferred them wiser and more experienced?” Mal asked as they walked up.

Jay rolled his eyes. “Haha, very funny Mal. And just for your information”--he beamed and gestured to her with overdramatic flair--” _this_ is my mama.”

She smiled and waved. Mal and Evie stared blankly at her.

“He's not kidding, trust me.” Carlos added.

“Mama, you've already been introduced to my best friend Carlos, now I'd like you to meet my _other_ two best friends from the Isle: Mal, and Evie.” Jay said as he pointed to them in turn.

“Pleasure to meet you two,” she said. “From what I hear, you two have made some _very_ big waves here in Auradon.”

Evie and Mal looked at her, then back at Jay. Her dark-brown and red tinted hair was different from his, as was her almost golden caramel eyes; their skin tone was one almost everyone who was born in or had descended from someone in Agrabah; but her tall, muscular build with the very wide hips, the sarcasm, and the aura of extreme, unflappable self-confidence she exuded reminded them far too much of a female, middle-aged Jay for it to be excused as mere coincidence.

Evie smiled and offered her hand. “Yeah, we certainly have, Mrs…?”

“Kalila,” she answered as she shook hands. “And I'm still just a 'Miss,' actually. “

“Gotcha...” Mal muttered. Kalila raised her hand to her, but she didn't. Evie quickly elbowed her side, and she reluctantly brought it up.

Though she could feel just how loose and reluctant her grip was, Kalila didn't say anything.

“Alright! Now that we're all introduced: you guys want to come with us to the Wendigo's after party?” Jay asked. “They're even _more_ crazy and fun than the rumours say, it's _awesome.”_

Mal shuddered. “And risk hearing damage, testosterone poisoning, and getting a live demonstration of how much food one man can shove into his mouth in less than five minutes? No thanks.”

Evie smiled as she reached over for Mal's arm. “I'd join you if I wasn't already spoken for.”

“Carlos! Jay! Jay's mom!” Chad called from the exit. “We're all waiting for you guy, let's go!”

“Last chance, guys!” Carlos said.

“Still gonna say no.” Mal replied.

Jay shrugged. “Your loss!”

The three of them turned around to leave, before Mal's hand darted out and pulled Jay back. Jay looked at her, then said to Carlos and Kalila, “You guys go on ahead, I'll be there in a minute.”

Kalila smiled and nodded, while Carlos said, “Just so you know, I'm not keeping them waiting for you, I want some of that pizza.”

Jay laughed and waved at them as they walked away. Then he turned to Mal and asked, “Well?”

She waited until she was sure Kalila was out of earshot before she whispered, “Are you _sure_ she's your mom?”

Jay chuckled. “I know she is, Mal. I just know.”

Mal shot him an incredulous look, but she let him go.

“What was _that_ all about?” Evie whispered as Jay ran off.

“Nothing,” Mal lied.


	2. Knight Errant

He took one look at every other applicant waiting in the room with him, and already he knew that every single one of them would be rejected. As a knight, he’d gotten gained a finely honed skill for figuring out people at first glance, one had used to assess how dangerous or honest they were.

Then again, anyone could have taken a look at these people and know that they were simply not fit for the duty of Captain of the Guard, even if it was just a small, experimental village for a supersized school project. Some of them were simply too scary, a face no one would ever trust; others still too mild, someone that no criminal would fear. Some of them had that leery, power hungry look about them, just itching for a position of power so they could abuse it; some looked like they were meek followers, people who had only applied to this position so they could have even a slight chance of making it out to Auradon, nevermind how absolutely poorly they would their duty when it was time to. And some of them, while looking (relatively) honest and capable, would just better serve as town guards rather than the captain.

A leader needed presence. A leader needed confidence. A leader needed skill. And though it was rather vain to say so, he did think that he was _perfect_ for the job.

That decision was at Lady Evie’s discretion, however, and he, like all the others, would have to wait his turn.

Every interviewee had at least a minute before they were rejected and sent on their way. He had to assume that was the time that Lady Evie needed to do away with the niceties of a job interview; conversely, that was how much time it took for the guards that were with her to pacify them and send them packing when they tried to argue a little too violently.

The line grew shorter and shorter, seats were freed, people paced about nervously or tried to strike up conversation with whoever looked like they weren’t about to kill them for getting their attention. Some people got up and left quietly, others still claimed the position was all a hoax, something to get their hopes up from “the son of that tyrant, Beast!” Still, he and a few others never let their hopes die down.

It reminded him of the tests for knights. All sorts of trials and abuses, both hidden and overt, all with the intention of separating the boys from the men, and the men from the soldiers. You never really did know the measure of a man until you put him under the worst possible circumstances imaginable, when you took away all of his comforts, dragged him kicking and screaming out of the familiar and tossed him headlong into a dark abyss of the unknown.

Those that looked like shoe ins for the job suddenly faltered, turning from the radiant and proud recruits into whimpering children who needed to be led out by the hand or with their arms thrown over the others shoulders, if they weren't just carried off on someone's shoulders. Those that looked like they wouldn’t make it past the first step slogged it through the end, suffering, falling, hurting; physically, mentally, emotionally; but still finding the strength within them to keep on going till they had earned their rest. And everyone, no matter if they made it to the end or faltered along the way, would be forever changed by the experience.

He remembered how the Isle of the Lost had done something similar, how the mighty fell and turned humble and scared, the weak grew conniving and strong, and even rarer, the vile turned good—or at least, as good as it could get in that forsaken place.

He wondered and worried if the Isle had changed him too, that even if he had retained the strength, the power, the skill of being a knight, he no longer had the will of a knight, that invisible virtue that separated the best from the good.

The door opened. Lady Evie personally poked her head out this time, to see how many applicants were left—or more accurately, that he was the only man left standing, the others already gone, and the second-to-the-last man walking past him and out the door.

She frowned for a moment, before she forced that radiant, confident smile back on her face. “Next!” She called out.

He got up from his seat, and marched proudly into the interview room. He rather lamented that he could not have looked better for the occasion, as he had only been provided with so many means and time to groom himself and make himself presentable. He had shaved off the worst of the massive, almost mythical beard he had grown during his stay in the Isle of the Lost, his hair had still grown wild and long, the shirt he had been given was too small and had ripped at the front and at the sleeves as soon as he stretched just a little too much, and the good scrubbing down he had subjected him too cleaned off the grime and dirt but revealed the huge number of scars, stitches, and old bruises that never really healed right.

Still, though he did not look reputable by Auradon standards, his charges would be fellow immigrants from the Isle of the Lost, and they wouldn't be so critical. And even if first impressions _were_ forever, they could still be proven so very wrong.

He of all people should know.

Lady Evie returned to her seat behind the desk, flanked on either side by two Auradon guards. Even with the kinds of disreputable folk they had seen and dealt with today, they still stiffened ever so slightly as he entered.

“Please, take a seat,” she said with professional calm and a warm smile.

He sat down at the chair provided. It immediately collapsed under his massive frame, sending him crashing down to the floor.

“Oh my evilness, I’m so sorry!” Evie cried as she shot up from her seat and made her way to him. “I can get you a new chair right awa--”

He waved her off and picked himself up from the ruins. “No need, I’ll be perfectly fine standing up. Besides, it’s not exactly a new problem.” He smiled.

Lady Evie looked at him with worry. “Are you sure?”

“Very sure.” He said as he brushed the stray splinters and wood chips off his rear and stood at attention before Lady Evie. She unconsciously stepped back, now more aware than ever of just _how_ big and strong he was.

“Now, I do believe there was the matter of a job interview to get to?” He asked.

Lady Evie nodded. “Right, right,” she said as she took her seat back behind the desk, a little more carefully than earlier. “So, what makes you think you’re qualified, Mr…?”

“It’s Sir, actually. Sir Gareth.”

Lady Evie’s eyebrows rose. “A knight, huh? Whose service were you under?”

He beamed. “That of your mother, Queen Grimhilde.”

He had expected the look on her face to be pleased to know that he had once been in his queen’s service. But the look on her face was anything but—she looked nervous, even terrified. The guards beside her subtly readied their weapons.

“Is there a problem, Lady Evie…?” He asked.

She shook her head, the fear disappearing, if only from her expression. “No, none at all! I, uh… nevermind that, let’s get to the interview: you are aware of the position you've applied for, right?”

“Captain of the Guard of your experimental village for your Sustainable Castle Planning project, tentatively named New Hope. My duties will be to oversee the day-to-day security and peace of the settlement, be supreme authority over the guards and its people, second only to you, and if need be, defend it from threats both external and internal, from raiders and rabblerousers trying to disrupt and harass the occupants, to revolutions and vandalism from disgruntled citizens that might jeopardize the experiment. I will also be in charge of any repairs and emergency protocols if the buildings and the disaster-proofing don’t turn out to be as effective as you thought they would be.”

Lady Evie, paused smiled. “I’m happy to see you’ve done your homework!”

Sir Gareth puffed up his chest, making him seem even larger than he already was. “I invested several long, hard years into becoming literate; it'd be a shame to let it all go to waste.”

“And that, Sir Gareth, is a very big plus for you, but this job isn’t just how well you can research. What makes you think you’re qualified?”

“I am very disciplined, in control of my emotions, stoic in the face of danger, and reasonable and peaceful up to the point where I have no other option than to leave, defend myself, or fight, which will be indispensable in resolving conflict and issues, either before they erupt or when they do.

“I am well versed in the administrative duties, from inspections, training, maintaining discipline among my fellow guards, and doling out merits and punishments as is necessary. Should there have been any changes in how a town guard is run, I assure you I will find a way to adapt.

“I am an experienced fighter, the one knight they called upon when all efforts of peaceful resolution had been exhausted and the one way to return peace and stability is with war or aggressive action; you may find that will be very heplful if ever the citizens get up to violent or destructive mischief, or there’s a group of newly formed raiders or vandals thinking your village an easy target.

“ _And_ I had a reputation of being able to face any number of men, and defeat them only with the sound of my voice.”

Lady Evie laughed. “Okay, this I _have_ to see.”

Sir Gareth nodded. “Just give me a foe, and I will show it readily. Do make sure he is of strong constitution, however.”

Lady Evie turned to the two guards beside her. “You guys up to it?”

“Of course!” The first said.

“We’re Auradon’s finest, we’re not about to bow down for just anyone.” The second added as they walked around the desk.

Sir Gareth and the two guards faced each other, Lady Evie watching from behind the table. He turned to her, and said, “You might want to cover your ears.”

She did.

The two guards raised their swords in an intimidating show.

The calm, cool look in Sir Gareth’s eyes changed in an instant, his expression like that of a raging inferno and a rampaging elephant all rolled into one. He took a deep breath, seemingly growing from his already intimidating six and half feet to well over eight, before he let loose a bellow of sound and force that had never been heard in Auradon before.

Both the guards shook and trembled from the sheer _power_ of Sir Gareth’s voice, let alone the way it rattled their bones and turned their legs to gelatin. The windows rattled and shook, the pot of a decorative plant in the corner cracked in several places, the guards swords crashed to the ground with a terrible clatter as their owners let go of them and instinctively threw both their arms into the air.

And no matter how tightly Lady Evie clapped her hands over her ears, the sound was not one to be ignored or shut out just like that.

Sir Gareth’s yell ended suddenly, his voice sharply dropping several decibels until it was quiet but for the echoes. He looked at the guards, their hands still raised high into the air, and all the colour from their skin completely drained. He smiled as he turned to Lady Evie.

She smiled back and gave him a thumbs up. She picked up a pen and wrote down on the clipboard she had nearby, before she raised it up to him. The message read,

“Meet me back here in 15 minutes.

P.S. That was wicked.”

He gave her a thumbs up is return and calmly marched out of the room. He saw the two guards finally collapse to the ground or check the front of their pants just before he closed the door behind him. He sat down at one of the many free chairs in the waiting room, and waited.

Around fifteen minutes later, Lady Evie opened the door once more. She smiled as she saw him. “Please, come back in; I think I’ve got enough of my hearing back.”

He chuckled before he strode back in. The chair was now swept up and thrown into trash bin in the corner, and the guards were back on their feet, if more than a little wary and nervous that he was back in the same room as them.

“Now, Sir Gareth, so far you're absolutely perfect for the job, but there’s just this one matter I'm really concerned about that I'd like to discuss with you.” She looked at the two guards in turn. “In private.”

They protested, but the stern look Lady Evie gave sent them on their way. Glad as they were to be away from him, they didn’t relish the thought of her being alone with him. That their sense of duty overrode their fear for their own lives helped them earn back a little of the respect he had for them, however little that meant.

They shut the door behind them, and now it was just him and Lady Evie alone in the office. The echoes from earlier had faded, leaving only an uncomfortable silence.

“What did you do for my mother...?” Lady Evie asked quietly.

He couldn’t help but notice how much she strained to say that last word.

“What any knight would have done—fight for her, defend her kingdom, protect and serve its people.” He replied.

She opened her mouth, as if to ask another question, before she closed it. “... I’m sorry, I guess I’m just… concerned, is all, that you used to work for her. ‘Former knight of the Evil Queen’ isn’t exactly the best thing to have on your resume.” She chuckled weakly.

He bristled at his queen's own daughter calling her that misnomer, but he didn’t show it. It was probably not her fault, the Auradonians being a lot with selective memories, and the tendency to twist tales for their own needs.

“Whatever reputation my queen—your mother—has here in Auradon, I assure you that I will not let it affect my work in the slightest. I will be undyingly loyal to you, her daughter, as I am undyingly loyal to her.”

Lady Evie frowned, confusion and fear in her eyes. “But _why…?_ _”_

He was about to go off on the same tangent as he used to do before and after he was shipped to the Isle of the Lost, decrying Snow White, the injustice of his queen being slain by that witch, the people’s falling for her lies and that of her lover… but as he looked at her face, his voice died in his throat.

He looked down, pondering what exactly to say. Lady Evie remained quiet, letting him think.

“I… I still love her is what. From the day I saw her parading at my town, the day I had to leave her for your sake, even up until now… I still love her.”

Lady Evie now looked _disgusted._ She opened her mouth to speak, before a realization suddenly hit her. “Wait, what do you mean the day you had to leave her for my sake?”

He smiled. “It was the day I realized that I could not be the father you needed, and that my presence would only be a nuisance to you and your mother.”

Lady Evie blinked. She opened her mouth, but words had failed her, too.

“I can leave if you would like, Lady Evie,” he said. “It would seem we both have a lot to think about.”

She shook her head. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?!”

Sir Gareth chuckled. “I didn’t want you to be accused of nepotism.”

Lady Evie stared at him. “I… sit down, please, I think we need to have a _long_ talk...”

He sat down on the floor, and Lady Evie told him the truth.

In the beginning, he was outraged, angry that Auradon could ever lie so brazenly to the new generation. Then, as she continued, talking about how his queen was not the benevolent, betrayed ruler he thought she was, how he was so _very_ wrong to have left her in her care, the things she had done, the things he did not, the world as he knew it began to crumble to pieces, little by little at first, until it was suddenly shattered into a million pieces, the shards raining down to the ground to reveal the ugly truth beneath the carefully constructed lie.

The lie he had been telling himself all of these years.

At the end of it, he was left a husk of the man he was, his massive form shaking uncontrollably, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and painful revelations; he felt like the very ground beneath his feet had had fallen away, sending him plummeting down hundreds of feet till he crashed head first into an icy ocean, a lethal impact followed by the biting, numbing cold like millions of tiny teeth gnawing away at him.

Lady Evie frowned. “Are… are you okay?”

“No...” he muttered, his voice hollow. “I… I'm not.”

She looked away. “… I'm sorry.”

He shook his head. “No, La—Evie, Evie, _please_ , don't be sorry.” His eyes started watering as he got up, using the desk for support. “ _Please_ , don't _ever_ be sorry…. you're not the one who has to apologize.” His tears started dripping down from his cheeks to the desk.

“I… I apologize… for _everything.”_

He turned around, suffering a pain deeper and more all encompassing than anything he had ever felt before. Evie got up from her chair, but he held up one massive hand and stopped her.

“No… I… I need to be alone right now.”

She nodded and sat back down, concern and sorrow in her eyes.

Sir Gareth staggered to the door, fumbling with the knob, his hands suddenly clumsy and uncoordinated like they were so many years ago, when he was just a boy that was growing up too fast and too big for his own good.

And as he now realized, one that hadn't grown nearly enough.

He nearly wrenched the door off its hinges as he slipped out, nearly pulled it shut on his fingers before he stopped himself.

He pushed the door open a few inches. “Evie?”

“Yes…?”

“Please, /en me know if you still want me for the position.”

Evie nodded. “I will.”


	3. Doctor, Inventor, Father

To the outside eye, the long line of tables and botohs in the exhibition hall were full of random junk, bits and pieces salvaged from all manner of sources, broken machinery, and strange constructions seemingly held together by glue, duct tape, rope, string, rubber bands, bubblegum, and prayers—all things that you would usually find in a bin, a dumpster, or on one of the trash barges on its way to the Isle of the Lost.

Which was true.

What was _also_ true was that they were all working machines, constructed with the barest, most scarce, and sometimes problematic materials and resources possible, all in a bid to find new and inventive solutions to everyday problems.

Or, at least, that was the _intention._

From his count, at least half of the inventions had gone up in flames or failed catastrophically, four-fifths of them did not work nearly as well as they should have or had a number of issues, and the remaining ten percent actually did what they were supposed to do. (If they could do it well was another statistic entirely.)

It seemed that his highness Benjamin's bid to free the geniuses and intelligent minds from the Isle of the Lost had backfired, with every last two-bit goon who had access to junk and some basic tools constructed whatever in the hopes that their invention might work and get them a ticket to Auradon. Even with the extensive screening they had gone through to get rid of people trying to pass off re-purposed and repaired appliances as their own inventions, they hadn't used a fine enough sieve.

To his highness credit, though, he was all to willing to slog through the majority of non-working contraptions and incompetent inventors to find the 10% that were actually even somewhat mechanically competent. He had to admire it, a real positive trait in a ruler, but at present, he had to _really_ wish that he had thrown in the towel, and ran them through another round of quality control before they started it all over again with stricter standards and better security.

Of course, it was difficult to remove the habit of chronic stealing and other predatory acts from the Islanders, when their survival had all but depended on it. But King Ben had thought too highly of them, and had both wrongfully assumed that they would stop stealing and preying on each other once they had free and easy access to vital resources, and provided too little measures to guard the inventors from sabotage and plagiarism.

Good thing he'd had the foresight to arm his own booth with traps.

“AGGGHHHHHH!” went the latest sap to attempt to steal his machine, her hand caught in a mousetrap. He didn't even spare her a look as the guards calmly walked back to his side of the convention hall and arrested the latest thief/saboteur, only flipping through to the next page of the engineering magazine he was reading, steadily working his way down his 20 year backlog of literature and publications.

He was rather so engrossed in reading that he hadn't even noticed that King Benjamin had finally worked his way down to his booth, until he tried to reach over to him and his hand came just a little too close to his invention and its defenses.

Neither he nor King Benjamin heard the electric shock trap charge, but they all certainly heard his majesty's yell when a _very_ unpleasant, _very_ painful amount of volts was pumped into his nervous system.

The magazine he was reading flew right out of his hands, getting whipped into oblivion when it activated yet another trap he'd set on the wall. The guards were already back to his booth, but their interest was on him this time as his majesty nursed his throbbing red fingers.

He carefully made his way down to his table, a mixture of horror and sincere apology on his face as he started deactivating every single trap that could conceivably activate and jeopardize his chances of getting into Auradon. His highness Benjamin quickly forgot the pain in his hand, and the guards lost their interest in him as they both watched the dozens of mechanisms mechanical, electrical, and even chemical were set-off prematurely, had their primary components removed, or had their triggering mechanisms disarmed.

After a good five minutes of furious, rapid work, he was finally completely sure that his majesty and his future were relatively safe.

He stopped to suck in a breath, and wipe off the sweat pouring down from his brow. “So sorry about that, your majesty; I'm afraid I didn't find the security measures you provided adequate enough to protect my property.”

“I… noticed...” King Benjamin muttered, his eyes still on the gauntlet of defenses that had just been deactivated. “Sorry about that, I'll plan better next time…”

The guards behind him looked nervously at each other, debating who exactly was going to tell him that it might have been better to skip him and send him back to the Isle if he was capable of doing something like this accidentally.

Then, someone from the side laughed. “Oh, _man,_ told you it was booby trapped!” Someone said.

He watched as a young man walked into view. Their eyes met, and the two of them had to stop and stare.

It was not because King Benjamin had done all the assessing by himself so far. He had had the help of several experts and technicians, people who could advise him whether or not someone was still worth keeping, if only because they showed some promise of talent.

It was also not because the young man was surprised to see someone like him in the convention. If anything, he was about the most in-place person there, the stereotypical short, squat man with glasses, unkempt hair, and a labcoat, whose only attractive feature was his mind.

No, it was because they were both so strikingly, shockingly, unnervingly alike.

He had not gained the rotund form the males of his family were so infamous for, but he was still incredibly short, not much larger than him, even. They didn't share the colour or the textures of their hair like it was with their skin, his straight up, white, and brown, and his own curly, black, and an even deeper shade of brown. He wasn't even wearing the spectacles he wore, or at least went for contacts.

But he could not help but feel that he was looking at a younger, thinner, slightly different version of himself, and the young man an older, fatter slightly different version of himself.

King Benjamin looked at them both, struck with the same realization now. “I didn't know your dad was attending...” He muttered.

“I didn't know either...” Carlos said.

There was a long, awkward moment of silence, all three of them unsure exactly of how to proceed. He would have imagined that Carlos, like most people, would have been positively thrilled to learn that he was face to face with the father he never knew, but then again, most people were born and raised before or after Auradon, not on the Isle of the Lost.

“… Shall I demonstrate my device now, your majesty?” He asked awkwardly.

King Benjamin snapped out of it. “Oh, uh, right! Please, tell us about what you've made, Mister…?”

“It's Doctor, your majesty—Doctor Theodor Bearington.”

Carlos snickered. “Sorry.”

“It's fine,” Dr. Ted said. “I'd laugh at my name if I weren't myself, too.”

“Back to your invention!” King Benjamin said. “Which I really hope is yours...” He added quietly as Carlos handed him a clipboard. “It says here that you've invented a... prototype dog grooming machine for matted and knotted fur?” He asked as he read off the list.

Dr. Ted beamed. “I have. No name for it yet, but I never was one for getting attached to projects that might not see the light of day.”

Carlos looked at the device shaped like a particularly tall sewing machine with robotic arms attached to its head. “Well let's see this baby in action!” He said as he studied it with an eager look in his eyes.

“I'll need a moment, please; in the meanwhile, you can read up on the documentation.” Dr. Ted said as he reached into his coat and pulled out two photocopied sheaves of paper. King Benjamin noted the act in his clipboard, while Carlos eagerly dove into them, humming and smiling to himself as he studied the notes and the machine itself.

He reached underneath the table and brought out his test subjects—three different plush toy dogs, some missing eyes, others with ripped off legs, one with most of its fur missing, all of them grimy and filthy from neglect and having sat in the trash for far too long. With a brush missing some of its bristles and a comb that had a few gaps here and there in its teeth, he started furiously tearing at the fake fur they still had, knotting, matting, and making a right mess of them all before he laid them down one by one on the table.

Dr. Ted forced a smile on his face as he turned on the machine. The experiments back on the Isle had worked out just fine, but he knew all too well that inventions that worked fine yesterday could suddenly stop working today.

Fortunately, the grooming machine just hummed to life, gently thrumming from the power coursing through its circuitry.

“It didn't explode, fall apart, or burst into flames, which already puts you above the other guys!” Carlos said. “But, it still has to work.”

Dr. Ted nodded and began to set the plush toys into position, before he configured the robotic arms, set them to work, and prayed for the best.

As you might have expected from a machine made for fine work and made out of materials that were anything but, it didn't do a spectacular job of getting all the knots and the kinks out of the plush toys—sometimes, it even gone went and ripped the patches right off, though he hoped he could have excused that for the quality of the toy itself, and not his machine.

Even still, it was a device made out of garbage and with a lack of proper tools that actually worked, did what was advertised, and above all, didn't put his highness Benjamin at risk of injury once more.

He and Carlos both clapped. “Very nice work, Dr. Bearington!” His highness said. “I promise you'll have your work visas, documentation, and living arrangements by this evening!”

Dr. Ted smiled and bowed his head. “Thank you, your majesty.”

“Man, I can't tell you what a relief it is to see work like yours,” King Benjamin continued. “With the way things have been going so far, I couldn't tell whether your invention was going to work or I'd risk losing my eyebrows again”

Carlos laughed. “Did you seriously ever doubt him? He kinda is my dad, after all!” He cast him a hopeful smile.

It slowly disappeared as he looked more surprised and hesitant than happy.

King Benjamin put his hand to Carlos back. “Yeah, we should go; still plenty of other inventions to see.”

Dr. Ted nodded awkwardly. “Of course.”

The two of them moved onto the booth next to him, the guards left for other places, now certain he was no longer of concern. He rearmed his traps and returned to his journals, picking up the scattered and partially ruined pages of the magazine that had gotten whipped earlier, making a note to get a fresh copy later.

But as he tried to study the pages that hadn't been too badly torn up, he found he couldn't quite focus on them, too bothered by a niggling voice in the back of his head that he had left a rather pressing, urgent problem unsolved, one he desperately needed to work on right this instant.

He tried to tell himself that even if Carlos was Cruella de Vil's son, he might not be his father. It could be possible that the child his friend had mentioned so long ago had perished or been whisked away, and some other poor sap had gone and thought it would be a good idea to share a bed with Cruella de Vil.

But deep in his heart, he knew he was wrong.

* * *

He didn't see Carlos again after the convention, what with the school league championships still ongoing and regularly scheduled training along with it. Part of him was rather glad for this, but a different part of him, one he never really knew he had until now—or maybe one he didn't even _have_ until now—was rather sad for it.

 _'Still,'_ he reasoned with himself, _'that's a problem for another time.'_

He had plenty more things to worry about, things like finding a permanent job here in Auradon. The certification he carried in his suitcase of things certified that he was a skilled mechanical engineer, and his highness Benjamin had been keen on having the royal archivists dig through the pre-Uniting records to find his old degrees and make them valid again. But this wasn't the London he knew, and there were plenty more people that were willing to reject him than they were to give them a chance, as he was still an Islander.

He knew that many businesses had not been happy that they were required by law to fill up a certain quota of them as workers, some natives even being kicked out of their jobs when their employers found that they could do the job better. And this wasn't even going into how his future co-workers were likely to treat him, be they natives to Auradon, fellow scientists returning from the Isle, or professionals from before the Great Uniting still alive and practicing.

Then there was daily life. Food and lodging technically wasn't an issue, with the kingdom providing both for free, but even if these government funded goods, services, and buildings weren't as cramped, poorly made, to outright unusable as the ones he remembered from his old life, he still wouldn't want to have to be forced to eat porridge three times a day and sleep with four other strangers in a room, all of them potentially dangerous and/or conniving people who hadn't exactly been honest about their promise to Good, were still too embedded in their old evil habits, or wiling away their time before they enacted whatever devious plan they had.

And there were his clothes. He wasn't a good looker in his filthy and much ruined and repaired lab coat, certainly, but somehow even the simple shirt and pants the kingdom had provided made him look even blander.

But most importantly of all, the thing he was dreading the absolute most: dealing with his new roommates, until he could find an apartment or house for exactly one in a nice, quiet neighbourhood.

He had absolutely no fond memories of roommates. Though it was illogical and biased, he still firmly believed that if you forced two complete strangers to live together without their consent, any prior information, or even any screening and planning to prevent problems before they could even start brewing, you'd have a recipe for disaster, if only for one unlucky sap.

He took a deep breath as he stood in front of his new temporary lodgings: room 404.

He briefly considered inventing and arming himself with a weapon, or wearing some clothing with self-defense measures, but he did not have the funds, the materials, nor the tools to do so. It looked like he was going to have to rely on his own wits and his meager strength.

So it was that he said a little prayer, knocked on the door, and turned the knob.

The inside of the room wasn't a problem. For living quarters that was just a short step above a barracks with rows upon rows of bunk beds stuffed with no privacy whatsoever, it was very generous; the floor area was wide and open, there were two very large shared wardrobes to be divided between the four inhabitants, along with four desks, and four privacy curtains attached to each of the bunk beds.

That there were already two other people was a problem.

The first one was a woman, a rather attractive one by any measure, but that wouldn't be a problem as he'd long lost his ability to be affected by just beauty. The second one was a man—or he figured, two or four of them combined into one from the way his feet stuck right out from the foot of his bed, the elbows of his tree trunk arms stuck out on either side.

He could see the poor metal frame sinking from his weight alone, which was why it was no wonder the woman had taken the top bunk.

“Hello there, new guy!” She said in a voice that was either playfully flirty or was her actually coming on to him. “Name's Kalila, and the big guy below me is Sir Gareth. Don't mind him; he's just having a personal crisis right now.”

Sir Gareth grunted.

“So, what's your name?”

“Dr. Theodor Bearington,” he replied coolly.

Kalila snickered. “Sorry.”

He ignored it. “If in case you don't feel like calling me by any of those, I'd prefer you to just call me Ted.” He said as he made for the last free bottom bunk.

Kalila nodded. “So, Ted, you heard the rumours yet?”

He laid down his suitcase and looked at her. “What rumours?”

Kalila leaned down from her perch and smiled. “Word from the docks is, King Ben's rounding up all the really dangerous criminals from the Isle, and bringing them all here. I'm not talking about corrupt politicians, shady businessmen, and immoral scientists—they sent a call out for all the murderers, the serial killers, and the psychopaths.”

He paled. “Why in the world would he do that…?” He barely kept the fear out of his voice.

“Well, I can't confirm it, because the whole thing's been pretty hush hush, and you know those barge workers, they'll say anything if it gets someone to listen to them but...” the smile disappeared. “He's looking for… you know who.”

He frowned, more in confusion, than fear. “Who?”

Kalila reached over to the top of the wooden dresser. “Nameless.”

She rapped on the top, while Sir Gareth on the bottom stiffened, temporarily brought out of his crisis.

He blinked. “Rubbish, like the cargo they're hauling,” he said calmly. “Why would he want to find him, let alone bring him back to Auradon, of all places?”

“I don't know. But I hear if he does, he's going to be part of our program, too.” Kalila smiled again. “In fact, he might just even be _your_ bunkmate.”

He feigned fear. “Even more rubbish. This isn't the only temporary lodgings in all of Auradon, nor is this the only four person room in this building that still has room for one more.”

Kalila chuckled. “There's always a chance, Ted.”

There was, he had to admit. But really, what were the odds?


	4. The Man Without A Name, 1 of 3

In the two weeks it took to find, reason with, or subdue their passengers before filing them into the ship conscious or unconscious, voluntarily escorted by guards, hauled kicking and screaming up the gangplank, or carried between three sailors, they had had all of them attempt to escape once; too many riots, attempted murders, and attacks on the guards to count each and every day, never fail; and an entire trash barge's worth of contraband, from makeshift weapons like shivs, glass shards with rags wrapped around one end, and bizarre contraptions that they weren't even entirely sure would be lethal, let alone harmful, to burglar's tools like lockpicks, books with hidden crevices, and skeleton keys, to more mundane objects, like the Isle's rotten provisions, vintage but torn and ruined dirty magazines, and the odd poorly drawn image of what was supposed to be a little girl, but oftentimes looked like a stick with a skirt, a smiley face, with hair that was usually coloured in vaguely purple tones.

“I swear to goodness, if I have to stay on this island for one more day, I'm tying an anchor around my neck and throwing myself to the alligators for the prisoners,” Captain Gyeong Hyon Joo “Honey” muttered to herself as she leaned back in her chair, fingers rubbing her temples.

“That's an _extremely_ grim thought, Captain,” Lieutenant Janine Rosa “Junior” Magsaysay said as she laid down a covered dish on her desk.

“This whole _mission_ has been extremely grim...” Honey leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk. “What was I thinking, joining up for this? That we were going to the Isle of the Lost should have been my first clue that I should have just stayed in Auradon, where the patrols are nice and boring!”

“But the mission was also of top priority to his majesty Benjamin, and he _did_ say he was looking for the best of the best!”

“I should have left it to the other best of the best, then...” Honey grumbled.

Junior frowned. “Is that any way for a commanding officer to speak, Captain?”

“No, but frankly, I couldn't give a toss a right now...”

Before Junior could reply, there was the sound of a muffled explosion, before a lot of screaming and yelling. Junior looked worriedly in the direction of the chaos, while Honey just slid the platter to the side so she could hit her head on her desk.

Honey reached over and pressed the button on her intercom. “This is Captain Gyeong, give me a report on the disturbance starboard on the double, over.”

Less than a minute later, they answered back. _“This is Bronx, reporting in: nothing to worry about,_ _C_ _aptain, one of the prisoners just tried to make a bomb again. No serious injuries or casualties; it wasn't_ _a_ _very good one, though it_ did _take out their eyebrows, over.”_

“Prisoner bomb, no injuries, no casualties, eyebrows gone, copy that. Gyeong out.” Honey removed her finger from the button. She turned her head to Junior. “See what I mean?”

“You just need some cheering up, Captain; a nice, hot meal will get your spirits back up in no time, I'm sure!” Junior smiled.

Honey smiled back, and pushed herself up. “Yeah, lunch sounds wonderful; what are we having today, anyway?” She asked as she looked at the covered dish.

Junior whipped off the lid with dramatic flair. “Porridge, freshly made, and piping hot!” Her smile faltered somewhat. “No apples, bananas, or cinnamon, though; turns out some of the prisoners accidentally let some rats and other pests on-board and they got into everything that wasn't in a sealed container… we've still got enough milk and oats for the next three weeks, though!” She finished cheerfully.

After a few seconds of silence, Honey let out a small, choked sob.

“Captain…?” Junior asked.

Honey sniffed, and wiped away her tears on her sleeve. She sucked in a deep breath, pushed the button on her intercom once more, and said, “This is Captain Gyeong to all crew members of the USS Li, Kerchak, Idun, and all teams and specialists under their jurisdiction: I want this operation ended _tonight,_ and all ships ready to set sail by dawn tomorrow alongside the civilian liner.

“Disregard the orders of his majesty Benjamin to find, capture, and transport _all_ potential candidates and send them back to Auradon; we're going home tomorrow, people, and if anyone is worried about what his highness will say, I'll personally answer to him and take all the consequences.”

Almost unanimously, there was a round of cheers, sighs of relief, and celebration at the docks and the ships the prisoners reveling alongside the crews as they were finally getting off the Isle. Honey let go of the button and leaned back in her chair, a relieved smile on her face.

“Permission to speak freely, Captain?”

“Granted.”

“I think that was a _really_ bad idea. What if our man's not on-board yet, and he's still back here on the Isle?”

“That'll be the next team's problem...” Honey hummed pleasantly.

Junior frowned. “Wow, this Isle has _really_ changed you, Honey.”

“Well, not all of us can be bastions of happiness and positivity like you, Junior...” Honey said as she picked up her spoon and happily dug into her bowl of plain porridge.

* * *

The docks were closed to all civilian visitors and transportation. Business had been suspended and the workers given a paid day off, and their employers compensated for the lost revenue. The guards were all on edge, all of them wearing body armour and wielding freshly sharpened and maintained swords, shields, and crossbows, with some reinforcements from other districts brought in for that day.

They were spread out all over the docks, but most heavily concentrated on the north end, the side furthest from the road leading further in land, and where Mal and Ben sat in a raised platform.

The one staircase leading up to them was guarded by three guards, two flanking it and one standing before the first step. Bulletproof glass had been erected around their seats for added safety. The radio on Ben's side crackled to life, and the two of them listened in.

“ _USS Li to Belle's Harbor, we are coming in to dock, over.”_

The tension from earlier broke, only to be replaced by an even worse suffering for the guards: the sight of three battleships and a fleet of smaller, faster escort ships. Only one of them contained some of the worst and most violent criminals Auradon had ever seen before or after the Great Uniting, and there was more than enough firepower to sink it in seconds if need be and take care of any stragglers trying to swim for shore, but it had been 20 years; the soldiers and police officers that had arrested them in the first place were either retired or well into their 40's at the least, and the new ones had never faced anyone worse than a particularly violent drunkard.

Even then, they were usually easily cowed by a flash of a weapon, and right now, and they all had a sinking feeling that it wouldn't work so well with these criminals.

The new recruits nervously clutched their swords, batons, daggers, and crossbows loaded with nets; the veterans sorely wished that handheld firearms hadn't been outlawed and rendered an artefact of the past so long ago.

“You know, there's still time to send them back to the Isle,” Mal said.

Ben shook his head. “I'm sorry, Mal, but after all the work, expenses, and effort I've put into this, I'm going to need results.”

“Is it _really_ worth risking these guys getting lose on Auradon, though?”

Ben didn't answer. The two of them continued to watch, guards quickly moving into formation to receive the new, most infamous batch of immigrants they had ever had in their history.

Meanwhile, behind the fleet, a passenger ship filled with minor offenders, non-violent criminals, and several teenagers about sixteen years of age broke off from the military vessels, making a steady turn to the south side of the dock, a good mile or so of distance between the opposite end. Though the passengers inside were relieved to see the bright and sunny light of Auradon in the distance, they were still rather worried about the other ship that would be disembarking at the same time as them.

One man in particular however, didn't seem particularly worried about that, instead looking out the porthole and studying the defenses erected all over the docks.

The battleship containing the criminals pulled in to port, the other ships remained at harbour, guns pointed at their comrade and patrolling the docks in case worst came to worst. The guards at the vanguard readied their swords as the gangplank was lowered, then their fellows on-board marched out and began unloading their passengers.

In the distance, intrepid reporters shot at the scene with telescopic lenses. The photographs would quickly circulate the internet, a series of images about to become part of Auradon's history and a major landmark for King Benjamin's rule:

Hundreds of men, all dangerous, all evil, all guilty of horrific crimes against their fellow men, women, children, and animals, being marched out onto the docks in chains, flanked on either side by heavily armed guards at regular intervals.

“Remind me again how in the world I'm supposed to know who of these guys is actually my dad?” Mal asked. “And you can skip the part about how no one knows his name, what he looks like, and the fact that he changed identities as quickly as most people changed socks.”

“You'll just know, Mal, you'll just know.” Ben said as he watched the first prisoner in line come up to the raised platform beneath them.

Mal rolled her eyes. “ _Right_ , that's a _very_ good way to go about it...” She muttered. Still, she peered over as far as the glass would let her and looked at the first potential father of the day:

A burly man without a shirt, his head bald, and every other part of him covered in a thick layer of unkempt and wild hair. He grinned at Mal, showing off a mouth full of yellowed and missing teeth, before he raised his arms up as wide as the chains would let him. His eyes glistened with tears.

Mal sighed. “No.”

The tears became real as the man was escorted off the platform and shuffled right back onto the battleship.

A different man walked up, tall, lithe, and crow like with his shock of wild spiky hair and his long, boney fingers. He looked impassively at Mal, his face serious and cold.

“No.”

His lip curled into a scowl as he joined the line heading back to the Isle.

The third was a rather normal looking man, with a pudgy, boyish face and a huge, innocent grin as he waddled up to the platform. “Mal, my darling, it's so--”

“Nice try, but no.” Mal interrupted.

“Awww...” He said as he waddled off.

Meanwhile, the civilian ship finally started disembarking, the passengers all too eager to get down the gangplank, and get officially checked-in to Auradon so they could be up and away from the docks as soon as possible.

Captain Fang Mei Ling sighed as already there were unlucky saps getting thrown into the water, and unfortunately for everyone, they couldn't swim. Normally, they would have had guards whose jobs were to patrol the waters in a life raft and save them, but today, they were well over at the north end, leaving the remaining guards to throw life preservers out like hotcakes and pull them in with ropes.

Nobody complained, though, knowing that they were helping keep the hundreds of dangerous criminals from reaching them.

“Please, maintain an orderly line, we will have you all checked in and on your way in no time!” She repeated, even if she was sure that no one was listening. About the only thing these Islanders seemed to know was that the little tent some distance away was where they were supposed to submit their papers, and get their ticket out of the Isle and back to Auradon.

The process went on as it usually did, not the efficient, painless procedure it should have been, with so many people not having their documents ready for review; they were usually forgotten on board, or in the hands of someone else who just couldn't stop themselves from pickpocketing, or possibly even marred by sweat and grime to the point where it was unreadable. It was nothing new or particularly problematic, however, and she was sure they'd be done within a few hours time as they always were.

Until, that as, there was one passenger on board that didn't get in line.

People happily waiting for the line to thin so they wouldn't get sardined and stolen from was perfectly normal; however, this particular man was clearly making his way down to the main platform and over to the north section.

“Excuse me, sir?” She said as she came up behind him and put her hand firmly on his shoulder. “Check-in is _this_ way.”

He turned around, and Captain Fang had to stop herself from reeling—as far as Islanders went, he looked the absolute _worst_ , with long, wild hair and a full, filthy beard, that had not seen a barber, a comb, or soap and water for far, _far_ too long. The rest of him wasn't much better, his coat patched up and torn, the shirt he wore underneath ratty, his pants full of holes, and though his leather boots were withstanding the test of time and the elements, they weren't probably meant for this world much longer.

He looked her in the eyes and said, “I know, but that's not where I need to go.”

“Sir, you _need_ to check-in,” Captain Fang said. “I don't know what the rumours have said, but his highness Ben and us guards are extremely strict that you have proper identification and documents, alongside you obeying Auradon Law—so please, get your documents ready for review.”

“Well alright then, here's my papers,” he said as he reached into his patched up and ruined coat, and handed over a rather filthy, partially damp sheaf.

She stared at it in disgust. “Sir, I am not the officer in charge of that.”

“But you _are_ a captain, right? I think that means you can clear me, too, because you're high up on the rankings?”

Captain Fang sucked in a deep breath, and quickly regretted it when she got a sizable whiff of his awful stench. She spent a few moments choking and gagging, before she reluctantly took the envelope from his hands, figuring that pretending to process him was easier than trying to explain how it was supposed to be done and why he needed to do it.

She checked his papers—complete, so far as she could tell, but you never knew. She looked at the boxes for his information, and said, “Alright, Mr…” She trailed off as she struggled to read the handwriting.

Once he was sure that she was incredibly busy trying to decipher the intentionally terrible and unreadable squiggles on the page, he started slowly inching away, taking farther and farther steps as the seconds passed.

Unfortunately for him, Captain Fang looked up to just ask him his name, and noticed that he was a good foot farther away from him than she remembered. “Hey!” She cried. “Where do you think you're going?!”

“To the north side,” he said. “It's where I need to go.”

Fang shook her head. “Sir, I don't know what you think you'll find there, but I assure you, it's in _everyone's_ best interests that you don't interrupt or even get close to them.”

“Well they're trying to find Mal's father, aren't they?”

Fang blinked. _“How did you_ —nevermind, what does that have to do with you?”

“Uhh, because I'm her father and all of those dangerous criminals that might be trying to escape into Auradon aren't…?”

Fang stared at him for a moment, before she shook her head. “A likely story. Sir, there are better, more certain, and _legal_ ways to get into Auradon than trying to impersonate someone, especially Lady Mal's father.”

“But I _am_ him! I'm telling the truth, I swear!”

Fang groaned. “Sir, please get back in line, and I promise you, we'll verify that claim _after_ we are done processing you, _and_ all other potential fathers have been exhausted.”

“No, you won't, because you're just going to label me as a potential threat to Auradon, hold me in a cell, and make sure that I never even have the slightest chance of being within seeing distance of Mal, let alone talk to her and let her know that I'm her father.”

Fang's mouth slowly fell open. She mentally made a note to have more serious measures taken to prevent the leaking of sensitive, confidential information, alongside telling the guards not to spread scary, untrue stories to the Islanders, before she said, “Sir, _please,_ just get back in line.”

He didn't move.

“Sir, _get_ _back in line.”_

He shook his head. “Sorry, not doing it.”

“That's it!” She dropped his papers and pulled out her sword. “Sir?” She thrust the blade right up to his chest. _“_ _G_ _et back in line...”_

He didn't even blink.

“… Well…?” Captain Fang asked.

“Well what?” He replied calmly.

“Aren't you going to get back in line?” She jabbed her sword at him a few times to emphasize her point.

“… Not really, no...”

Captain Fang's face turned into a thin, hard line as she held her sword steady, and tried not to betray her true emotions.

He just looked at her.

Back at the north side, Mal sighed and slammed her hand on the table. “No! Get out of here! As a matter of fact, _all_ of you get out of here!” She swept her hand through the air again and again. “I'm pretty sure you all think you can just trick me into thinking you're my dad, but I'm telling you now, it's not going to work!”

“Mal, please—think about this!” Ben said. “What if he's still in this line and you have him sent back to the Isle?”

“Then he'll just have to find some way other way to get to me...” She grumbled as she crossed her arms.

“You want some strawberries?” Ben asked.

“I _want_ to go home.”

Ben reached under the table and pulled out a hidden pack of strawberries that had been taped to its underside. Mal glared at him, before she opened the pack and started popping them into her mouth.

She closed her eyes and hummed at the familiar sweet taste, her eyes wandering away from the newest impostor to try his luck to the rest of the docks. Even for the distance, she could tell something was going terribly wrong over at the south, with the guard holding their sword out to a man that didn't even seem to be the least bit concerned.

“What's going on over there?” Mal asked.

Ben looked. “Eh, just the usual problems; some of the Islanders get violent, confused, or just try to muscle their way into Auradon, it happens,” he explained. “Don't worry, the guards are professionals, they can handle it.”

“Well it seems like they aren't handling it very well...”

“Look, Mal, that's _their_ problem, and _our_ problem is finding your dad among these guys.” He gestured back to the line of chained up convicts.

Mal sighed, popped another strawberry into her mouth, and looked back at the line. “Fine,” she muttered as she chewed, and looked over the latest man.

Little did they all know, it was quickly going to become their problem, and indeed, all of Auradon's.


	5. The Man Without A Name, 2 of 3

One mistake was the difference between victory and defeat, a merit and dismissal, maybe even life and death.

She hadn't realized just how vastly she'd underestimated her foe then, but it was too late to be gnashing her teeth now, not when she'd dug herself in too deep. As her old mentor said, “The weak man cries because he has fallen into a hole; the strong man calls for help as he looks for a way out.”

Problem was, she didn't know _any_ way out, and calling for back-up might be her last words.

“Captain? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, something going on?”

Captain Fang relaxed a little as she saw the familiar faces of her soldiers coming to her rescue. “Singh, make sure this suspect does not try to escape; Ackerman, come with me.” She lowered her sword arm and stepped back as inconspicuously as she could.

The suspect remained unfazed, as if Fang had never held her sword up to him. Singh didn't do the same, but he was built like a brickhouse and confident that that alone was deterrent enough. Ackerman looked concerned and more than a little curious, but she followed her orders and joined her captain some distance away.

“What's going on, Captain?” Ackerman asked.

“Soldier, we have a dangerous situation on our hands, something I'm sure none of us have ever faced before…” Fang whispered.

Ackerman's face fell in horror, before she put on a brave face and continued listening.

“ _This man did not stand down when I held my sword out to him.”_

Ackerman blinked, confused. “That's it?”

“ _Yes_ , that's it!” Fang whispered, trying to keep her voice low. “Have you ever put your sword up to someone?”

“One or two times,” Ackerman replied.

“Did they stand down?”

“Of course!”

“What about all the others you've seen do this? Did their suspects _also_ stand down?”

“Yes, of course,” Ackerman suppressed a chuckle.

“Have you ever heard of someone who _didn't_ stand down when they had a weapon pointed at them?” Fang asked.

Ackerman's smile disappeared. “Err, no...”

“And what does the manual say about suspects who don't stand down?”

“They have a much higher chance of becoming violent, or trying to escape, and may be dangerous,” Ackerman replied. “But Captain, we're trained soldiers, shouldn't we be able to take him? There's three of us, after all.”

Fang glared at her. “Did you not notice how disturbingly _calm_ he is? How he doesn't seem to be terrified at all? What kind of man would keep that sort of cool when his life is being threatened?”

Ackerman's face fell once more. “Ah...”

“'Ah…' indeed! Now, here's what we're going to do...”

Singh continued to loom menacingly over the suspect, but he was still unfazed. He casually leaned past him and looked at Fang and Ackerman, then leaned back and looked up at Singh.

“Hey, are those two planning to attack me?”

The stoic, surly look on Singh's face didn't change, nor did he answer.

“Because I'm telling you right now, that's a _really_ bad idea.”

Still no response.

“Look, could you just let me go over there and introduce myself to my daughter? I promise you, we'll have this misunderstanding cleared up right away, and we can even have all of those phonies pretending to be me back on the ship and to the Isle before sundown. Isn't that what _all_ of you guys here in Auradon want?”

Ackerman marched back to him, a determined smile on her face. “Singh, the Captain wants to speak with you.” She said.

Singh grunted and returned to Fang. “Singh, we're subduing this suspect and taking him in for questioning. While Ackerman keeps him distracted, I'll rush in with my sword and force him on the attack, then you take him down while he's occupied.”

“But Captain, won't that put you at risk?” Singh replied.

“Yes, but I swore my life in the service of Auradon. Now, on three...”

“One...” Fang put her hand back on her sword.

Ever so subtly, the suspect turned his eyes to her, and started studying her movements.

“Two,” she slowly pulled her blade out from its scabbard.

His fingers twitched.

“Three!”

Ackerman jumped to the side, bringing her well out of reach of the suspect and giving Fang a clear path to charge him. Singh tensed up, ready to spring into action the moment the suspect tried to counter or dodge the attack.

Then, faster than any of them could have moved, the suspect dodged out of the way of the blow, and his open palm flew straight into Fang's solar plexus.

All the guards were wearing the most highly advanced, lightweight, and incredibly durable armour available in Auradon. It counted for absolutely _nothing_ as the blow casually strolled past the material, before it sped up and slammed straight into Fang at full force.

Singh and Ackerman stopped, stunned, as their captain let out a tiny gasp of pain, dropped her sword, and crumpled to the ground. The suspect was already running off to the north end of the docks by the time they regained their senses.

[“STOP THAT MAN!” Singh roared, and the chase began.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p5NbG_wVeYM)

Everyone from the north end turned their heads at the sound echoing over from the south. The guards readied their weapons and prepared a blockade, while a commotion erupted among the line of potential fathers.

“IT'S HIM!” One of them yelled. “RUN!”

Ben and Mal watched as hundreds of serial killers, murderers, and torturers, people who had done unspeakable things without the slightest bit of remorse, who had faced the most elite fighting force in Auradon with almost casual disregard suddenly ran away _screaming_ , their chains rattling as they tripped over themselves and stampeded over the fallen, rushing back up the gangplank or just throwing themselves overboard, preferring a watery grave over the risk of even coming close to him.

Mal turned to Ben. “Still think they can handle it?!” She yelled.

Ben ignored her as he shot up from his seat. “All guards! Get the prisoners back on the boats, save the ones drowning in the water! The rest of you, form a phalanx! Do _not_ let him get near any of us!”

The guards at the north side quickly marched into a solid wall of swords and shields raised up at the ready as the alarm started blaring, howling and echoing all over Belle's Harbour.

Shooters up in the towers fired nets at the suspect; he ran in erratic, zigzagging patterns, dodging shots, making himself an incredibly hard target to hit, and even getting a few unlucky souls caught and tied up instead. Guards poured out of the warehouses, frantically running after him, yelling at him to stop, but he was faster.

They blocked off the shortest path to the north end, setting up their own wall of shields and swords; he just dashed into an alley. Guards poured in from both sides, squeezing themselves in against the towers of boxes and barrels taking up space at the sides; he just effortlessly vaulted over them or ascended them like they were a staircase.

Those behind him yelled as he sent stacks of boxes crashing down, barrels rolling down after them, and broke open containers full of fresh fish, leaving their slippery and smelly contents to spill all over the floor. They jumped away or to the sides to avoid getting crushed, struggled to climb over the wreckage, or stepped on the oily mess or a dead fish and crashed to the ground.

Those in front of him were swiftly, effortlessly taken down in short order, getting struck with powerful blows that completely bypassed their armour, their sword arms caught in mid-swing before they were twisted painfully or wrenched behind their backs, their cries at him to stop were cut short as he ducked, tackled, and struck them. They crumpled to the ground, limp, clutched their arms with screams of agony, or felt the air knocked out of their lungs before they were spread out over boxes or sliding down against the walls.

The guards formed into a line at the very end of the alley, blocking off his escape; they smiled, thinking he'd slow down.

Instead, he sped up, made a sharp turn, and jumped onto a wall. He ran up its side, caught the ledge made by the windows, and pulled himself up, all the way to the roof.

The guards tried to raise their swords at him, but he was just out of reach. Those with crossbows tried to fire at him, but he was already clambering on top of the roof by the time the prods even extended, let alone a net loaded in the barrel. Others still tried to climb up after him, only to fall back to the ground as the stacks beneath them collapsed or water drains ripped off from the walls from too many trying to use the same means to get up at the same time.

“HE'S ON THE ROOFS!”

There were only warehouses at this section of the dock, several large, completely identical, and evenly spaced rectangles, with triangular roofs made of steel, nothing to be seen on them but the occasional vent and solar panel. He smiled to himself as he started running once more.

The shooters tried to fire at him, but the awkward angle and the speed of their nets just couldn't match his. The guards poured into every alley, raising their swords up to him, but none of them could quite reach even the sole of his boots as he pounced between buildings. They climbed onto the roofs with him by ladders, but the uneven, unfamiliar terrain let him dispatch them even easier than he had earlier, guards screaming and flailing as they fell off the roofs to ground below, their comrades there joining in as they tried to avoid their very sharp swords or getting crushed underneath them.

The last warehouse already had a circle of guards at the ready, a break in their formation for the suspect to jump onto the roof with them before they surrounded him. The north side's phalanx had broken, Auradon's elite of the elite surrounding Ben and Mal in a tight circle, their weapons ready, their expressions grim as they silently prepared to face death itself. Mal gritted her teeth as she whispered magic words under her breath, Ben silently reached under the table and pulled out the short sword that had been strapped there alongside the strawberries.

The suspect stopped at the peak of the second-to-the-last warehouse, looked at the forces quickly swarming around him, and sighed. He took a deep breath, and yelled, “If it helps any, I _really_ wish it didn't need to come to this!”

The guards didn't get to yell a retort back as he sped up once more and jumped off to the last roof, stumbling and falling on his last landing. He threw his hands out as he crawled up the side of one roof, while the guards wasted no time circling around him, raising their swords as they slowly advanced on him, happy that he'd fallen right into their trap.

Or so they thought.

He reached into his boot, whipped out his hand, and unveiled a retractable sword, its edge sharp, the blade stained with dried blood.

All of the guards on the roof except one jumped back in fear.

“ _He's got a sword!”_

“You idiots!” The brave guard cried. “We've _all_ got swords!”

They regained their confidence and bore down on him once more.

He whipped out a second blade from his other boot.

“He's got _two_ swords!”

They all jumped back as one.

The next few moments seemed to happen in slow motion.

The suspect rushed the guards closest to Mal and Ben. They raised their weapons at him, but he deflected them and whipped his second blade through the air, thick, noxious green smoke pouring out from a hidden compartment.

The unlucky guards started gagging and choking. He dropped his blades and shed his coat, revealing small bags strapped to his body, and a strange, backpack-shaped contraption on his back, before he jumped off the edge of the roof.

He pulled a cord near his belt and mechanical wings spread out from his back. He ripped open one bag, and little balls rained down on the guards below him, bursting into thick, blinding smoke on impact; he opened the other and threw it into the air, the contents turning into a thick haze that all but hid him from the shooters.

The guards screamed and yelled, panicking and running away, struggling to get up to the booth that held Mal and Ben, or blindly firing at the haze and hoping they'd hit.

He came out of the sky like a hawk and dove at Ben. He rose his sword up to him too late, and felt himself tackled and slammed right into the side of the wall, his sword falling out of his hand.

Too late did they all realize that they had forgotten to guard against an attack from _above._

Mal pressed her back to the wall, hands raised in front of her. She tried to stop them from shaking, but couldn't. She tried to think of an offensive spell, anything that could delay him for even just a few seconds, but she couldn't. She tried to get herself to open the latch on their side of the bulletproof walls, but she couldn't.

He got up from Ben, leaving him dazed and breathless on the floor. He pulled the chord on his hip again, the wings retracted into the backpack. Then, he turned around, looked her in the eyes, and said,

“Hey Mal. It's me, your dad.”

* * *

“And then what happened next?” Carlos asked.

Ben sucked in a breath. “Well, Mal just kind of…”

“Freaked out?” Evie offered.

“Screamed at the top of her lungs?” Jay continued.

Ben shook his head, then winced as he accidentally strained his shoulder. “No, no, no, I guess you could just say that she stared at him.” He said as he rubbed at it through the brace. “Like she couldn't believe that it was actually him. Or that she _did_ know that it was him, but she just didn't want to believe it.

“The guards finally broke the lock, and they all stormed in with their swords out. But, her dad just raised his arms and let them slap the cuffs on him, no questions asked. She watched him get dragged away, but I don't really know for how long; there was a medic on me pretty fast, and I was starting to _really_ feel that takedown...”

The parlour was suddenly quiet, nothing but the sound of the fire in the hearth crackling as they sat on the couches and armchairs and let it all sink in.

“ _Wow,”_ Evie said, “and I thought my first meeting with my dad was bad.”

“Tell me about it!” Jay cried. “Man, I am _so_ glad my mom didn't come with any of the baggage _your_ missing parents have.”

“You mean you seriously haven't noticed?” Carlos asked.

Jay frowned. “Noticed what?”

“Seriously? The Wendigo's after party? Didn't you notice that ALL the guys' and the gay girls' eyes were on her? Or that all the wives and girlfriends were watching their husbands and boyfriends watch her?”

“So what? She's a sexy woman, it's nothing new.”

“And weren't you _right beside her_ when all those guys started flirting with her?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Didn't you notice how she flirted back with _everyone_?”

Jay scowled, his eyes narrowing at Carlos. “Force of habit. She used to be a prostitute, she had to flirt with guys all the time—among other things.”

“Yeah, right, and she also said it's been, what, about 16 years since she retired?”

Jay gripped the edge of his armchair. _“What are you getting at?”_

Carlos raised his hands. “Just trying to be subtle about it,” he muttered.

Jay launched out of his chair.

“Guys, please, stop!” Ben cried. “I've already got enough problems as is...”

“Ben's right: we need to start _solving_ problems, and putting an even bigger wedge between us isn't going to help!” Evie said as she quietly reached over to Carlos and gave his arm a hard squeeze.

Carlos yelped and shrank into his seat; Jay reluctantly let himself fall back into his seat with a quiet whumph.

“Fine...” Jay mumbled. “But how...?”

“That's what we're going to have to figure out,” Ben said.

“Getting her out of our room might be a good place to start,” Evie offered. “I mean, she was pretty thorough with the bag she shoved out the door, but I'll run out of make-up and clothes in three days if this keeps up.” She quietly added, “Plus, I don't think I was ever meant to stay with Audrey for longer than a night...”

“We could try texting her!” Carlos offered. “But I think that privacy spell she cast on the room blocks out cell reception.”

“She also melted the doorknob and shut those windows tight, so I can't break in.” Jay continued.

A lightbulb went off in Ben's head. “Right…” He smiled. “ _You're_ not breaking in...”

Evie frowned. “You're not seriously thinking that, are you?”

“I am,” Ben replied as he got up.

“Mal is going to _seriously_ hate for you this,” Carlos said. “And I mean, _really_ hate.”

“I'll be fine so long as it gets her out of her room and talking to us again.”


	6. The Man Without A Name, 3 of 3

As far as prison sentences went, this was by far the nicest one he had ever been in. There was satellite TV with more than just the Auradon News Network and the Shopping Channel, which was fantastic in and of itself; he had his own private bathroom, with running water, a working shower, toilet, and sink, plus a full complement of toiletries that came with a razor and barber's scissors; air-conditioning which kept the place nice, cool, and well-ventilated; fresh, clean clothes to replace the ratty ones he'd been wearing for the past 20 years or so; a fully stocked fridge and cupboard complete with a working toaster and a microwave for a little bit of cooking; a comfortable single bed which wasn't rock-hard nor had a single spring poking out from the cover, with a just as comfortable couch, armchair, and deskchair; high speed internet, though he had really only used it to read the new rumours and forum posts about his memorable entrance to Auradon; and to top it all off, the magical barrier keeping him locked up in this tower cell was transparent, giving a simply fantastic view outside his tower prison's window.

He _really_ could have done without the guards knocking on his door and challenging him to duels to “avenge the honour of King Benjamin, and the good name of the Auradon Royal Guard!”, but as they said, beggars can't be choosers, and his majesty Ben had been more than generous to him already.

Besides, they were so passionate and enthusiastic about beating the ever loving daylights out of him in “honourable fashion” with their bare hands, he just couldn't bring himself to say no to any of them.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

He put down the “electronic scroll” they called a “tablet” on his bed, uncrossed his legs, and calmly strode over to the side of his door. He grabbed the free end of a towel made of ropes, pulled, and it opened without him even remotely in range for an attack or ambush short of high explosives, or spell that could destroy the wood, too.

In rushed his latest opponent: a tall, muscular female, probably hailing from the families that had settled in Tarzan's Jungle, from how wild her hair was, her gorilla-like stance, and how she forewent body protection of any sort, just wearing the regulation tunic and pants without the boots.

She looked confused as she dashed into the center of his room, looking right, left, and upwards, before she finally looked behind her and saw him.

“Hey there,” he said. “Got a pre-butt kicking speech, or should we just skip straight to the fighting?”

She responded by pouncing on him, knocking him down into the plush carpeted floor. Most people would have panicked at having a semi-feral, gorilla-like woman trying to wrestle them into submission, but he was not most people; instead, he curled his legs, and landed a solid kick on her stomach.

She staggered back just a few feet, but it was enough for him to flip himself over to the side and dodge her trying to pounce him again.

They tangled for a few minutes—though he hesitated a little at calling it that, as though she had definitely mastered the infamous grapples, wrestling moves, and body slams of the “Gorilla Style,” she never could pin him down for long enough, or lock his joints before he could counter. Even then, it seemed that she had never fought someone who knew and was a master of as many martial arts and fighting techniques as he had.

Eventually, his opponent tired and lost her concentration, and made one last clumsy lunge at him; he dodged, and he used her momentum to help slam her into the carpet.

Three inches of thick, downy soft fabric be damned, it still hurt enough for her to finally cry, “Uncle!”

“If it's any consolation, you're among the guys and gals that lasted for more than five minutes against me,” he said as she limped back out the still open door.

She growled at him and bared her teeth, but she hung her head and left soon after, slamming the door shut behind her.

He calmly returned to his bed, picked up his tablet, and crossed his legs as he checked on the updates and news since.

Almost immediately, there was a new knocking on the door, this one much more formal and restrained than the loud and dramatic pounding of everyone else before. He put his tablet down again, got a bottle of mineral water from the fridge, and drank it as he pulled open his door once more.

Whoever it was took a more cautious approach this time and didn't come charging in. “Hello?” A familiar voice asked. “Anyone home? I come in peace!”

He pulled the bottle from his lips with a sigh and stepped into view. “Hello, your majesty; if you've come to personally duel me and 'avenge your honour,' I'll have to warn you that I won't go easy on you, even with that shoulder.”

“That's fine,” Ben replied as he stepped in. “I'm here to ask a favour of you, actually. Can we sit down?”

His eyebrows rose. “This isn't a trap so you can try to stab me when I turn around to pull you up a chair, is it?”

“What? NO! I'd _never_ do something as awful and vile as that!” Ben paused. “No offense.”

“None taken,” he replied as he turned around and fetched his desk chair. “Make yourself at home, your majesty. Do you want a drink? Maybe some snacks? It's the best stuff I've ever tasted, though that could just be because I've been _literally_ eating garbage for the past 20 years.”

Ben quietly winced. “No thank you, and please, just call me Ben,” he said as he sat down in it.

“Suit yourself,” he replied as he sat down on the nearby armchair. He rested his hands on his knees and leaned in. “So, what can I do for you?”

Ben sucked in a breath. “This is going to sound _really_ weird, and _extremely_ questionable by any standards, but… I need you to break into your daughter's room. She's shut herself in there as soon as she got back from the docks, kicked Evie out, and she hasn't talked to any of us since.

“It's going on a day, and we're getting worried. Normally, this would be when the guards would step in, but she's melted the keyhole for the door, she won't answer no matter how much we knock, and Evie is pretty sure she's cast a privacy spell, so we have absolutely no idea what's going on in there.”

“So now you need someone who's skilled in illegal infiltration, can take the brunt of whatever traps or defensive spells she may have set up, and be able to subdue her if she gets violent,” he finished.

Ben nodded gravely. “Exactly.”

“That's a _brilliant_ plan, Ben.”

Ben frowned. “I'm being serious!”

“So am I,” he replied.

Ben opened his mouth, before he thought better of it and closed it. “Do you think you can do it?”

He smiled. “The better question is: can you get me what I need?” He got up and strode to his desk. “If there's one thing I've learned through all my years, it's this: there are no impenetrable fortresses, you just haven't found the right tools and the right way to break in.” He said as he pulled out some stationery and started writing.

When he handed the finished list back to Ben, he couldn't help but notice that the handwriting changed dramatically all throughout, sometimes even mid-sentence, making it look like it had been written by dozens of different writers with vastly different styles.

Ben looked up with a questioning look, he shrugged. “Force of habit. You'd be surprised at how easily your handwriting can give you away to people looking for you.”

Ben nodded as he pocketed the list. “It'll take a while to get everything,”

“That's fine,” he replied as he returned to his bed. “As an assassin, you learn to be incredibly patient. And besides, it's not like I've got nothing but time—how long is my sentence, anyway? 25 to life? Or are you bringing back the death penalty just for me? If you aren't, I can give you a _long,_ long list of names of people who'd happily jump at the chance to kill me and plead guilty, no questions asked.” He said as he sat back down and pulled up his tablet again.

Ben paused, staring blankly at him for a while.

“Yeah, when you're in my business, you tend to develop a _pretty_ damn grim sense of humour,” he said as he casually scrolled through the latest comments.

Ben nodded and made to leave the room. He opened the door, and was nearly run over by a small squad of guards with their weapons at the ready. The soldiers sheepishly lowered their arms and backed off.

“What are you doing up here?” Ben asked. “I thought I ordered all of you to stay down at the base of the tower!”

“You did, your majesty,” one of them said. “But we had this sudden premonition that you were in trouble!”

“What they mean to say is: they were hoping to storm in and catch us in an awkward situation that they could use as an excuse to beat the ever loving daylights out of me,” their prisoner said from inside the room.

Ben turned back at the guards, who had all suddenly taken an intense interest in the cracks on the walls.

He sighed. “From now on, _no one_ is going to challenge him to any duels of any sort, or make any attempts on his life unless it's for self-defense, the prevention of a crime, or in the interest of protecting Auradon. Please tell every guard you see while I work on getting this information disseminated.”

The guards looked simultaneously worried and incredibly disappointed, their shoulders and faces falling. “But your highness, he's--”

“Maleficent's ex-kinda-boyfriend and former right hand man/assassin?” The prisoner said from further in. “Yeah, I was, but trust me, me and Lifi broke it off a _long_ time ago.”

Ben blinked, stunned for a moment by the realization that Maleficent had a pet name, before he put on his most stern face. “No 'buts.' And believe me, _any_ violations of this order will have a _far_ worse punishment.”

The guards gulped and nodded as one. Ben shut the door behind him, and they made their way down the steps, all silently planning how they were going to protect Auradon from Mal's father, or how to protect Mal's father from Auradon.

* * *

“So, I read the blueprints and the details about your security measures, but just to be clear: what am I looking at here?” Mal's father asked as he stood outside his daughter and Evie's room.

“Thorny vines creeping all the way up to the roof, slippery moss and other organic matter growing on the stones, and all of the ledges and possible footholds are regularly smoothed down, so it's nearly _impossible_ to get a good grip on them.” The head of Auradon Prep's Safety and Security team reluctantly said.

“Okay, got that, but any surprises I _can't_ see?” He asked as he strapped on some thick gloves and exchanged his boots for lightweight climbing shoes. “False footholds so I'll slip and fall to my doom? Tiny holes with motion sensors that'll activate poison dart guns? Animal pheromone sprayers to attract a horde of crazed woodland creatures to attack me and thwart my evil plan?”

“Very funny,” the head grumbled. “And to answer your question, there are none.”

“Really?” He asked as he pulled up his hood and tightened bottom around his face, so only his eyes were exposed.

The head puffed up. “Yes, _really!_ We are completely, absolutely confident that the only security threat that could reach this point would be mischievous students and disgruntled staff, both _easily_ taken care off, I assure you! Any more serious intruders would have been stopped right at the very first line of security measures we have.”

He nodded slowly.

The head narrowed their eyes. “What are you getting at?”

He raised his hands. “I'm not saying anything. Now, the rest of my gear, please?”

The head reluctantly handed back one of his swords, a small set of burglar's tools, and a crowbar. He checked the first for any signs of tampering or damage, double-checked the second before he put it inside a pocket, and strapped the third into the belt around his waist.

Then, he unsheathed his blade, and hacked himself a clear, vine free patch to start his climb with.

The head and the small posse of guards were not pleased to be helping him break into the building, and their disdain for him only grew as he effortlessly scaled the wall, getting up to the window in less than a minute, the security measures barely a nuisance to him. Even the tightly shut panes were no match for as he managed to silently pry the lock open from the outside.

He opened a pane, and looked into an ominous, empty blackness inside. He didn't worry, knowing that this was just an illusion; he just hoped that there wasn't a physical barricade behind it, or a magical barricade that'd fry him, or that Mal hadn't taken a page out of her mother's old tricks and set up a trap for him.

Fortunately, she had done none of those things, leaving him free to simply climb inside, silent and undetected.

The room was dark; the curtains had been drawn over the windows, and the lights were shut off. He supposed it was a pretty nice bedroom for two, but in this oppressive gloom, anything could have been turned ugly and dour. Getting to know what the room looked like wasn't his objective, though.

No, his goal was the sleeping figure curled up on one of the beds.

He mentally prepared what he was going to say to her, and proceeded to bang his foot on a table he hadn't realized was there.

It didn't hurt, but the force was enough to topple something on top of it. He heard something slowly roll over to the edge, before it fell and crashed to the floor with the distinct, loud sound of shattering glass.

Mal shot out of bed, frantically reaching for her bedside lamp and turned it on. She had her hand raised up like she was going to blast him with a fireball, before she saw him, lowered her hand and scowled.

“Oh. It's _you.”_

He smiled. “Heh. I'm happy you can recognize your own dad even if you've never met him before.

Mal scowled even deeper as she sat on the edge of her bed. “One: you're not my dad, just a guy who's _claiming_ to be him, and two: I meant 'you' as 'the guy that terrorized the guards, attacked my ex-boyfriend, and claimed to be my dad in the most heartwarming, sweet, and _totally_ not creepy and pants-wetting-terrifying way possible!'”

His smile disappeared. “I'm sorry. I guess I panicked and got a little too hasty.”

“If you're really sorry, you'll get out of my room this instant before I have to call the cops on you.”

“You might want to save yourself some time and not do that,” he said as he loosened his hood and pulled it back. “I'm on orders from his highness Benjamin himself to break into this room, and get you out of it. Not too sure about Auradon Law, but I'm guessing his authority overrides yours.”

Mal muttered darkly to herself.

His face softened. “He's worried about you, you know that?”

Mal didn't reply, and cast her gaze down at the floor.

“They all are—Jay, Carlos, Evie especially. It's killing them all inside that you're shutting yourself out from everyone like this. They _want_ to help you, Mal. You're not alone in this.”

Mal remained silent.

“Evie wanted me to tell you that she misses you, Audrey's driving her crazy, and that she loves you. Also, you forgot to pack her 'Lady Knight's Choice' deo spray.”

Mal got up and grabbed a spray can off Evie's vanity table. She threw it at him, he caught it just before it could hit him in the face.

“Thanks,” he said as he pocketed it.

“Why are you doing this?” Mal asked.

“King's and girlfriend's orders—two of the most powerful authorities out there, I tell you.”

“No, why are you doing this? Trying to get close me, trying to get me to trust you?”

“Did you get that letter I sent a few months back?”

“Yes. I burned it.”

He winced. “Did you at _least_ read it?”

Mal groaned. “Unfortunately, yeah. But that still doesn't answer my question.”

“Did I not make myself clear enough? Because I'd be happy to explain.”

Mal shot him a look. “And _why_ should I even believe anything you have to say to begin with?”

He hummed. “That's a good question. You have every right to distrust me, and frankly, I wouldn't trust myself, either, even if I just knew the rumours and not the whole truth about me. So, I guess you'll either have to take a chance and believe me, or I can do something that'll prove I'm being honest.”

“What's your real name?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, I can't tell you that.”

Mal groaned. “You see? _This_ is why I can't trust you! How can you even expect me to believe anything you're saying, when you won't even give me something as simple as your name?”

“There are _very_ important, _very_ personal, life-or-death reasons I don't, Mal.”

“Well you're just going to have to weigh those against how much you want to talk to me.”

“I did. And I figure I'd rather you give me the cold shoulder for the rest of your life than risk you, or anyone else you love getting hurt by the people that are better off thinking I'm dead.”

Mal paused, before she scowled. “You're making that up.”

He shook his head sadly. “I wish I was, Mal, I wish I was...”

Mal pursed her lip. “Dog,” she said.

“What?”

“Until you tell me your real name, I'm going to call you Dog.”

“You want me to start woofing while I'm at it?”

Mal rolled her eyes. “Just get out of here already.”

He turned around and made for the window again.

“Hey Dog?”

He stopped, and looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Don't talk to Ben again until I say you can, alright?”

He smiled. “I'll be a good boy and do exactly as you say, Mal.” He said as he climbed out the window.

Mal shook her head as she prepared to dispel the privacy bubble.


	7. The Man Named Dog

**From:** BennyBoo74@royalauradon.gov

 **To** : EvilEyes626@auradonprep.edu

 **Subject:** REALLY FREAKING URGENT

Mal, your dad won't talk to me, and I know it's because you told him not to until you say so. _Please_ , let him, or tell me whatever he needs to do!

THIS IS REALLY IMPORTANT. The whole kingdom's afraid for their own safety, the people have lost almost all of their trust in the Royal Guard, and I'm pretty sure some of the Islanders are going to try to revolt, and I'd rather we avoid violence breaking out or anyone getting hurt.

I've got a plan to solve all of problems in one go, but for that, I need to be able to talk to your dad.

Please, just do it Mal! If not for his sake, yours, or mine, then for all of Auradon!

* * *

 **From:** EvilEyes626@auradonprep.edu

 **To** : BennyBoo7@royalauradon.gov

 **Subject:** re: REALLY FREAKING URGENT

1\. He's not my dad, just the guy claiming to be him. Refer to him as “Dog.”

2\. How did he let you know I forbid him from ever talking to you again?

3\. He is NEVER talking to you ever again; and,

4\. Maybe you should have thought about what you'd do in case this whole plan of yours to bring back one of the most dangerous criminals on the Isle to Auradon went belly up BEFORE they got here?

* * *

 **From:** BennyBoo7@royalauradon.gov

 **To:** EvilEyes626@auradonprep.edu

 **Subject:** re: REALLY FREAKING URGENT

1\. Got it.

2\. Writing on a whiteboard isn't technically talking.

3\. Are you serious?! And,

4\. I did, actually, but the whole plan hinges on me being able to talk to him, at the leaset. So _please_ , Mal, will you take it back or tell me what is it that he needs to do?

Peace in Auradon is at stake—lives could be lost if things get any worse!

* * *

 **From:** EvilEyes626@auradonprep.edu

 **To:** BennyBoo7@royalauradon.gov

 **Subject:** re: REALLY FREAKING URGENT

Fine.

100 Guards, stationed all over the longest, most twisted, and complicated path from your bedroom door to the entrance to the castle.

Arm all of them with the best equipment we have today.

Give Dog a frozen tuna, and tell him that he can't use anything that is usually a weapon—swords, shields, clubs, crossbows, and the like. Everything else is fair game.

He _somehow_ manages to win, he can talk to you again.

He loses (which I am REALLY HOPING FOR), he gets shipped back to the Isle, and you go figure out a new plan.

Deal?

* * *

 **From:** BennyBoo7@royalauradon.gov

 **To:** EvilEyes626@AuradonPrep.edu

 **Subject:** re: REALLY FREAKING URGENT

Deal.

* * *

The challenge was set up in three days, no shortage of guards eager to redeem the good name and the trust of the people of Auradon, the armoury having already been working overtime ever since the incident at the docks, and the fisheries all too happy to provide several frozen tunas for Dog to pick from, so long as their names were mentioned in the newspapers and by the media. The only real delay was broadcasting the wiring and broadcasting the CCTV feed out to the rest of the country and the Isle of the Lost, by request of Former King Beast.

Father and son watched in the latter's room, a bowl of popcorn in the elder's lap and several bottles of soda at the ready nearby.

The guards were rather confident that they would win, as they were already well aware of Dog's capabilities, he was restricted to non-lethal methods of dispatching them, and they were certain that a frozen tuna, no matter how large and solid, was no match for their weapons individually, let alone a hundred of them in a row.

As it would quickly turn out, however, _they_ were at the disadvantage, having never quite fought anyone that could wield a frozen fish with such deftness and skill, let alone the unfamiliar fighting technique. Dog's unique ability to weaponize almost everything he could get his hands worsened their already humiliating and hasty downfall.

Ben had thought to replace all of the priceless artifacts, paintings, and sculptures with cheap replicas beforehand, and the caution turned out well-justified as dozens of guards found their blades blocked by wooden frames, were fooled by portraits set up in poor light, or struggled to free themselves from the canvases, oftentimes with their head poking through in amusing and sometimes scandalous ways.

Once, he managed to get a group of guards all trapped in one painting, all of their heads somehow aligned with that of the dogs' that were playing poker.

Discount candelabras, parts of replica suits of armour, and even cleaning implements received the same treatment. It would seem that anything made of steel and mostly thin and vertical was almost as good as a sword in Dog's hands; many guards were blinded by oversized, heavy helmets getting shoved over their heads, if they didn't fall over from the sheer weight of it all; and the wrath of the humble feather duster was no laughing matter.

One of the guards, a champion among champions, attempted to end the fight prematurely.

“I challenge you to a duel!” She had said as she took off her leather glove and slapped Dog across the cheek with it.

Without gloves of his own, Dog quickly grabbed a hand off a nearby suit of armour, and smacked her across the head with it with a resounding CLANG!

As she dropped to the ground, nursing her throbbing cheek and her ringing head, the guards stared at Dog in a mix of horror, disgust, and fear.

He just shrugged and said, “You can't just lightly tap your opponent on the side of the head to accept a duel, right?”

The conga line of violence and mayhem snaked into the kitchens and into the dining hall, where a few brave and/or extremely stupid spectators were waiting to watch the fiasco live. Aside from the obvious weapons of ground spices being thrown into eyes and noses, and spills made by dumping milk, water, and juice all over the floors, Dog also managed to successfully use a bowl gelatin to subdue one of the guards.

Not the crystal bowl it came in, just the gelatin.

“How did he do that?” King Beast asked in between his roars of laughter and cheering for whichever side seemed to be losing at the moment.

Ben shrugged as he watched Dog shove his fish into the hands of first guard in line at a particularly narrow corridor, run along the side of the walls all the way to the very back, take out them out in short order from behind as it was extremely difficult for the guards to turn around for all their weapons, before he stood before the last guard standing, and the only one that had been able to turn around to face Dog before they were taken out.

He held out his arms. “My fish?” He asked.

The guard slowly handed it to him.

Dog nodded. “Thank you.” He said, before he turned around and jogged off, armed once more.

The guard promptly fainted and joined his companions on the floor.

With the first few casualties, the guards were still confident; they were realistic about their capabilities relative to Dog's, and expected more than a handful of them to fall. When there were about 80 of them left, they started getting concerned, but kept their bravado and confidence up, still yelling proud battlecries at Dog before they engaged him. At the 50 mark, those further back in the line started strategizing and hiding nearby objects that could Dog could potentially use as a weapon against them. When there were 23 of them left, they started making plans on the fly by yelling at the top of their lungs. When there were 10, they dropped their swords and shields and took up arms with everyday items like the candelabras and the feather dusters Dog had been soundly beating their fellows with.

The guards' last stand involved seven guards, all forming a wall in front of Ben's bedroom door. They were hardly the best, as their last champion had been the 93rd casualty, but they were determined not to let Dog through, especially not with the sorry show he had made of the rest of them.

Most of the first casualties had already picked themselves up or been brought to the infirmary, but the rest were still laying down on the floor; hanging half out of broken and open windows; dangling precariously from a tree branch or a lamp post; stuck inside rolling kitchen shelves; trapped inside air vents from when they were shoved in or tried to climb in and got stuck; attempting to get their heads and body parts out of torn painting canvases; attempting to coordinate their steps as they had their arms, legs, and waists chained and tied up in haphazard order; swinging from a chandelier with the others below trying their damnedest to line up and catch them when they fell; trying to get themselves out of the bushes and the flower beds without ruining the topiary and too many of the flowers; trying to extricate themselves from inside the industrial electric ovens; attempting to figure out how exactly to free someone whose limbs and head were trapped inside a replica of a particularly confusing piece of modern art; pulling at the metal helmets that were stuck on their heads; lifting their friends out of brand new holes in the floor, the walls, the ceilings, and sometimes the doors; escaping the affections of amorous woodland creatures who mistook them for one of their own or wanted the food dangling from their bodies or stuffed in their pockets; crowding around sinks and other sources of water to wash the spices or the gunk from their eyes; trying to get their feet out of the cement-like mass certain combinations of food had hardened into; helping carry a giant novelty moose head that one of their fellows had gotten stuck in; attempting to undo the incredibly complex and tough knots Dog had tied them in; purging the pond water from their stomachs; drying out their clothes as they shivered from their impromptu dip into large bodies of water; leaning on the sides of bathroom stalls with dripping wet heads and serious trauma for the rest of their lives; or the rest of their unpleasant fates.

“Come out and face us, Dog!” The leader among them cried. _“We're ready for you!”_

The seven of them readied their swords or weaponized objects, waiting for their opponent to come rounding the corner.

Meanwhile, Dog unscrewed the lid of one of the air vents in Ben's room, and dropped in, two severed, mangled halves of a defrosted tuna under his arm. Father and son whipped their heads to him, he waved as he strode over to the door and opened it from the inside. Beast started laughing his head off as the guards realize they had been outsmarted and outmaneuvered; he started laughing even harder when Dog waved and the guards glumly waved back.

“Do I still need to beat these guys, or can we say I won?” Dog asked.

Ben looked at the brutally demoralized seven standing just outside his door, and shook his head. “No, it's fine.”

The seven guards hung their heads as they walked down the hall to assist the clean-up.

Dog threw the broken halves of the defrosted tuna into a nearby trash can. “Sorry, your highness, turns out we're not having sushi tonight.”

“I was never a fan of it anyway,” Beast said. “Popcorn? Soda?” He said, holding out what was left of his bowl and the few bottles that weren't already empty.

“Just water, please,” Dog said as he wiped away the sweat of his brow with his hand.

Ben gestured him over to the chair beside his, where two pitchers of water and three glasses were waiting on an end-table nearby. He poured Dog a glass of water, and held it out to him; Dog grabbed one of the pitchers, dunked its contents on his head, before he took the other, and started chugging the contents straight.

Dripping wet with water and soaked with sweat besides, Dog crashed into his chair, then took the glass from Ben. “Thanks,” he said as he casually sipped at it, his pinkie raised.

“That was one heck of a fight you just had!” Beast cried. “You ever think about making this into a regularly scheduled event, like the Girlfriend Gauntlet?”

“Sorry, Dad, but I think there's more important problems to deal with—namely, my plan to get Dog accepted in Auradon.” Ben said.

“What, you're going to have me go out and do good deeds, show everyone I'm not as bad as they think I am?” Dog asked. “Help old ladies across the street, get cats out of trees, or work in a soup kitchen? Because I'm telling you know, it won't work, because old ladies tend to run screaming from me, those cats will either stay in the tree or try to attack me, and all the people lining up would think I was trying to poison all of them.

“Not exactly the best kind of press you want, I'd think.” He finished as he took a sip of his water.

Ben smiled. “Oh, you're going to be helping people, alright, just not the _usual_ citizens of Auradon.”

“He's probably going to use him as part of his plan to rehabilitate the Islanders,” Mal said as she sat on the edge of Evie's bed. “Try to get him a job, get some 'impromptu' photo-ops of him doing good deeds, maybe even set up a whole event with press coverage to show everyone that he's changed.

“I can just see it now: 'Get your portrait done by the Nameless Assassin, The Terror of the Isle of the Lost, Maleficent's Former Right Hand Man!'” Mal forced a smile on her face and spread out her hands in the air like she was tracing an invisible banner. “As if anyone would even buy that...” She grumbled as she dropped her hands and the smile turned into a scowl.

“You'd be surprised,” Evie said as she soothingly rubbed her girlfriend on her back.

“I would kill for a portrait done by you!” Beast roared, a wide grin on his face.

Dog winced. “Yeah… I'd rather you just pay me in cash or kind, your majesty; I can do without the extra life on my conscience.”

Beast's grin disappeared. “Ah, yeah, right… sorry about that.”

“It's fine, your highness.” Dog replied.

“So _anyway_ , that could _definitely_ be a great start!” Ben said. “But, I'd rather we move away from using the 'Assassin and Maleficent's Top Henchman' gimmick as soon as possible, have people think of you as a completely reformed, honestly good villain.” Ben said.

“Like Mal?” Dog offered.

Ben snapped his fingers. “Exactly! I'll admit, it won't exactly be as easy, or as smooth as it happened with her, but I'm sure it'd work for you, too!”

Dog frowned. “Sorry to rain on your parade, your highness, but I don't think secretly plotting a heist to steal one of the most precious artifacts in Auradon with three other villains/friends, unleashing a great evil on the people, and casting a love spell on a high ranking member of society and getting them to legitimately fall in love with me isn't a very practical plan.” He said flatly.

“You know what I mean,” Ben calmly replied.

“I do, which is why I know this plan of yours isn't going to work,” Dog mumbled. “It's heartening to know that you think everyone is worthy of redemption—but that doesn't apply to me, Ben.”

He hung his head. “It just doesn't.”

“What is he even thinking?!” Mal said as she paced her room, Evie still sitting on her bed. “Why in the _world_ does he even trust that guy? And more importantly, why does he think _I_ should trust him?! How can I be sure that he's not just trying to worm his way into our lives just so he can attack us when we thought we least expect it?! How can I be sure that he's not just planning to steal the wand, or find some other artifact of power to help him take over Auradon?!

Her voice softened. “How can I be sure that if I let him into my life, I'm not going to risk losing everyone else in it…?”

Evie got up and wrapped her arms around Mal and pulled her into a hug. “Your goodness had to come from somewhere,” she said. “And I'm _pretty_ sure it wasn't from your mom.”

Mal closed her eyes and buried her face into Evie's chest. “But what if they're both completely evil, and I was just a fluke, some weird genetic mutation?” She whispered, tears welling in her eyes.

“I could just be really good at lying to your faces and manipulating people, you ever thought of that?” Dog said. “You've got no way of knowing my true intentions, and last I heard, you banned magic in general, so there's no spells for you to look inside—which works out, because _trust me_ , all you're going to see there is black, black, and more black, maybe with a little shades of really dark grey on the sides.”

Ben smiled. “I can tell you're Good, Dog. Just like I did with Mal.”

“Just like his mom” Beast added with his won smile.

Dog stared at them for a few moments, before he looked away. “That's well and good for you, your highnesses, but frankly, I just think you're both trying to fool yourselves...” He looked back at them. “You know what? Hypothetically speaking, what if I _was_ good? How would you find that out, and prove it to me and everyone else, if in case they don't trust your judgment?”

“Why did you all of this, Dog?” Ben replied calmly. “Write her that letter? Try to outsmart Maleficent, risk getting caught in all those traps, go on what's essentially a suicide mission if she didn't know you'd suffer more if you were still alive? Sneak all the way here to Auradon, fight all of the guards, just so you could come face to face with your daughter, and tell her your her father?”

Dog opened his mouth, about to reflexively shoot a sarcastic, witty remark back. Then, he closed it and hung his head. “I… I've done horrible things in my life, and I can't take _any_ of it back. I should probably just haven given up a long time ago, but there's just this one _dumb_ thought in my brain, that maybe, _just maybe_ , I can do _one_ thing right, just _one_ thing...”

He sighed. ““Do you two mind if I start singing out my feelings to myself on that balcony over there?”

Beast chuckled. “It's not the first time it's ever happened, believe me!”

“You wonder if your dad's singing somewhere out there too, and you two doing a duet without knowing it?” Evie asked.

“Man, I hope not, because that'd just be _creepy_ ,” Mal replied as she stepped up to one of their open windows. She looked outside to the clear night sky, the calm of the campus around her, and the bright full moon beaming casting everything in a soft, radiant glow. She took a deep breath, sighed, and started singing to herself.

“Moonlight bright, please light the way

My heart longs for kinder days

When I didn't know the awful truth,

Thought my dad was waiting to rescue me.

But he's just a monster like my mom, the worst of the worst!

He says he's changed and turned to good,

But how can I really know for sure...?”

“Moonlight bright, won't you light the way?” Dog sang.

My little girl's turned me away. How can I make it up to her? I screwed up bad, and there's no going back. Please tell me if there's still hope, no matter how small!”

“Maybe he really did change!” Mal sang.

Dog hung his head. “But it's been too long...”

“… So I sing out this song, to the lonesome moonlight bright...” Mal sang.

“To the lonesome moonlight bright...” Dog finished. He sighed and made his way back into Ben's room. “Sorry you guys had to hear that...”

Neither of them replied, too busy bawling their eyes out and hugging each other.

Dog awkwardly thumbed to the door. “I'll just… see myself back to my room, then...” He muttered as he left.

“Dog?” Ben said in between sobs. “I swear, I will do whatever I can to help get you and Mal back together!”

“What he said!” Beast wailed, before he broke out in another round of tears.

Dog blinked, smiled. “Thanks. That… means a lot to me...”

He slipped out of the room and made the trip back to his tower cell, telling a servant to go send a big box of tissues to Ben's room on his way there.


	8. New Hope's Hopefuls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is going to steadily have a lot more harsher elements like very mild, rare cursing and some much more serious, Disney-unfriendly violence to make the atmosphere of "Island full of ex-cons in a kill-or-be-killed environment returning to polite society" more realistic.

“To the lonesome moonlight bright...” Mal sang sadly, before she sighed, and stepped away from her window. “I need a break from all this 'dad' business...” She grumbled as she walked back to her bed and let herself fall into it with a dull whumph.

Evie nodded. “Want to join me in New Hope after school tomorrow? I'm giving the Guard Captain candidates the tour, and the last test to see who gets the get the job.”

Mal pulled her head out of her cushions. “Isn't that several miles out of the city?”

“Well, yeah, but--”

“Perfect, I'll do it.”

Evie frowned. “Uh, M, there's some things you might want to know about it before you--”

“E, you've gushed about all the details, the plans, and the innovations to me since you got the idea in the first place, I'm _pretty_ sure I know what I'm expecting.” Mal said as she rolled over and sat on the side of her bed.

“There's a Smell.” Evie said.

Mal blinked. “A _what?”_

Evie sucked in a breath. “It turns out that the experimental aquaculture we're doing there is releasing a lot of organic byproducts back into the environment; nothing harmful or too disruptive to the ecosystem—it might even be good for it, fingers crossed!--but the stuff has a _really_ powerful Smell.”

“Well what's it like? Rotten eggs? Spoiled ham? Jay's armpits? Because if you've forgotten, neither of us are strangers to that stuff, and worse.”

“I… can't actually describe it. Besides, we've been living in Auradon for months now; coming into that place from fresh air can be _really_ jarring, trust me.”

Mal rolled her eyes. “I can deal with it. Now come on, let's go pick me an outfit,” she said as she got up off her bed. “Any suggestions?”

“What's something you won't mind having to burn, just in case?” Evie replied.

* * *

_After school the next day..._

Sir Gareth did not know why Evie had decided she still wanted him for the job, but he knew that he could not refuse her summons without good reason. And frankly, feeling sorry for himself was not one no matter how you painted it.

So it was that he found himself loaded up in a bus with several others, the candidates for the position of New Hope's Captain of the Guard, the ones that had been weeded out from the unqualified and the unsuitable. Most of them were bulky, muscular, and intimidating looking men like him, former henchmen of Maleficent, bouncers, hired thugs, and lower-tier bodyguards on the Isle or before the Great Uniting. The rest were a mix of quiet types with noticeable, almost unnerving auras of authority and power; dirty cops and disgraced knights that were given a second chance; or the kind of person who went looking for trouble, but was picky about who they tangled with. There were more men than women, but the ladies all looked perfectly capable of taking on any of them one-on-one and _win_ , or at the very least, the odds would be around 50-50 if nobody pulled anything particularly dirty.

It was a great relief to the cadre of guards assigned to them that day that none of them wanted to start a riot while they were still on the bus. However, there was no telling what was going to happen once they arrived at the village, or even when they left the city's limits, its well-paved roads, and its street cameras, the view from the windows going from modern buildings, to quaint roadside cottages and businesses, to untamed forests that steadily turned wilder and wilder every minute.

They were all well informed about the location and its surroundings, but to see pictures and teal descriptions of the place was very different from actually being there and seeing it with their own two eyes, among their other senses. And from the way some of the candidates looked out the windows with dismayed or resigned looks, they did not like what they saw.

“We can't just keep cutting down forests, draining wetlands, and making artificial islands to accommodate our expanding populations, nor should we just build our condos and apartment buildings even higher and overpopulate our cities even more than they already are; instead, we need to do like the Altlanticans dive in to our waters!” Evie had written in her original proposal, one of the many documents they had copies of as per law.

However, she soon found out that seaside to semi-aquatic villages for sustainable development experiments were nothing new, and here she was in need of something fresh and original that would both catch her teacher's attention, break valuable new ground for all of Auradon, and more pressingly, be cheap enough to fit her limited budget.

Enter the swamp New Hope was built in, a giant wetland that had so far been abandoned to the wilds and the animals, too far away from other agricultural areas to be profitably drained and cultivated in to a field, and much too wild and waterlogged for even the most opportunistic developer—especially when there was much better, more convenient, and just as cheap land elsewhere.

Aesthetically, the village was quite the sight; the buildings and houses were built out of a collection of refurbished boats—decommissioned crafts, obsolete designs, or ones too damaged to be survive the open seas—floating platforms, and the occasional “modernized” stilt house built several feet above the water by sturdy poles hammered into the muck below. Almost of them were free-floating and not even anchored, kept from floating away further downstream by a series of bridges and support structures, easily taken down and rebuilt to rearrange the whole village if they so wished.

Practically, all of them were designed to withstand as much of a beating from bad weather and cranky wildlife as resources allowed, while still being a livable, comfortable space that someone would actually want to move in to even if they weren't getting paid. The village also had aquafarms, its own semi-natural waste-management system, and other infrastructure to make sure that they were almost entirely self-sufficient.

It was an ambitious project, and while the boats were brightly painted and generously decorated, and the people looked legitimately happy and content to be living there, only time would tell if the town was going to be the beginning of a new way of living, or yet another failed experiment.

Their only real concern, however, was who among them was going to be the Captain of the Guard, the protector of the town and its people.

The bus slowly rumbled to a stop. They watched as Evie, her girlfriend Lady Mal, and a handful of residents stepped up with smiles on their faces, holding little baskets made of locally woven fiber with treats inside, and… masks? 

The doors opened,  the local air filtered in , and  they were all  hit by the Smell.

Evie had warned them about it, but it was only now that they learned she hadn't been vague out of malice or self-interest. Gareth could not describe it, and in fact, he would say that it actively defied explanation, dodging it like Dog had the guards at the docks, gaining a burst of speed or taking an unexpected turn just when you thought you were catching up to him.

It wasn't putrid enough to smell like rotting plant life and dead animals; it wasn't pungent and in your face like some types of particularly flavourful cheeses; it wasn't acrid and offensive like smoke from a burning building or a particularly old batch of rotten eggs. It was this mix of so many unpleasant but not horrific scents, odours, and musk, swirling together in a combination that offended the senses, but only slightly, like a lumpy mattress you could still sleep on.

“ Welcome to New Hope, everyone!” Evie cried as she  spread her arms out in welcome .  “ Don't worry about the Smell;  the residents assure me that you won't even notice it in a week ! In the meantime, feel free to  put the masks ; there's more than enough for everyone!”

“ If you can still smell it, you've got it on wrong,” Mal grumbled as she stood with her arms crossed, one such mask strapped securely to her face.

T hose with particularly sensitive noses tore the m right out of the  resident's  hands and strapped them on. Two of them decided that they'd rather find some other way to ensure their continued stay in Auradon and got straight back on the bus—and frankly,  no one could blame them. The rest either  began acclimating themselves to the Smell , or distracted themselves with something else to keep  it  from being the center of their attention.

One of them decided on the treats they were offering. “What the 'eck are these things?” He said as he picked up a fried ball of something and examined it.

“That's what we call a Swamp Bite!” Evie explained proudly. “It invented at one of our local restaurant's, Zelma's, after a food delivery ran a little late.”

He popped the ball into his mouth, chewed twice, then spat it out to the ground. “Ugh! What is this crap _made_ of?”

“Oh, cattails and some edible mushrooms from the swamp, a bit of spices from Auradon...” She paused. “… And insects for a little protein and texture.”

His eyes didn't widen in shock, but the look on his face was not pleased, to say the least. “Tell me I won't have to eat this garbage if I get the job...” He grumbled as he let the rest of the swamp bite fall to the dirt.

“You won't!” Evie said, just a little bit too quickly.

He still wasn't pleased, but at least he hadn't turned back to the bus yet.

They finished strapping on their respirators, or decided they'd tried enough of New Hope's local delicacies; the guards put them into an orderly file, two heads a row if they weren't too broad, and into the village they went, the muddy and grassy ground of the swamp beneath their feet turning to the wooden planks of the docks.

“Watch your step, everyone!” Evie said as she ascended  a large ramp  to  the boat that served as the guardhouse and the visitor's lounge . “There's guard rails, and I know you all know how to swim, but I'd prefer it if none of us fell in!”

With a single look at the vibrant green of the water, simply teeming with aquatic plant-life, bacteria, insects, amphibians, and fish, they all dearly hoped none of them ever would—or worse yet, have to wade in.

They toured the residential areas first, meeting the people working the aquafarms; the residents running the local businesses or the infrastructure, if they weren't an artist of some sort or a child; and the odd researcher or student that was living on-site than commuting from Auradon.

Gareth thought it was a fantastic decision, as a leader who did not know nor get along well with his people was one doomed to be fired from his position, or worse. The villagers did not seem to think so, as they obviously stiffened up visibly or outright cowered at the sight of him, but he did his best to smile, shake hands (or offer a few fingers, if they found the fact that he could have easily envelop their hand and wrist within his palm), and initiate some polite conversation.

Some warmed up to him, especially the children who saw him as a living, friendly jungle gym, while their parents and the other were still wary or outright terrified. It wasn't ideal, but he was still doing better than some of his fellows who were clearly as distrusting of their future wards as they were of them—or worse yet, completely aloof and detached, as if the people weren't the reason the job they were vying for existed in the first place.

All the while, Lady Mal stayed in the corner, silently eying the interactions and keeping track of how they went, while Evie was busy making introductions, trying to defrost cold shoulders, and defusing the odd confrontation that erupted.

“Alright!” Evie clapped her hands after a half-hour had passed. “I think that's time enough for introductions and chit-chat! Now, any questions before we proceed to the next part of our tour?”

“Are we going to have to live with these people?” Someone asked loudly.

“Yes, of course!” Evie replied. “Don't worry, if the lodgings we've provided you in the barracks aren't satisfactory, we can easily provide you with your own personal houseboat!”

“Right, thanks,” they replied, before they turned round and shuffled back down the line of bridges leading back to the bus, a handful of candidates following suit.

Evie's smile faltered for just a moment, but there was still a sizable number of them left. “Any more questions?”

No one had any.

“To the farms we go, then! Don't worry, I'm not going to make any of you wade in and get your hands dirty!”

That didn't please any of them, and may have worsened a few moods. They marched out to the boats and docks situated further into the swamp, where the water was deeper, and fences, posts, and other structures had already been constructed.

“We're now coming into the heart of New Hope: its aquaculture!” Evie said as they walked along, some farmers stopping their work to wave and greet them. “Our numbers are growing, and there's only so much fertile ground in Auradon, so we're looking for alternative sources of food and resources, especially ones that not only have less environmental drawbacks, but can actually help undo some of the damage we've caused in recent years! Do you any of you know how much pollution we pumped into the atmosphere thanks to the rapid and uncontrolled industrialization and modernization of states like Agrabah, China, and Arendelle?”

The candidates stared blankly at Evie, yawned, or turned to the farmers and workers and tried to see if they'd be more interesting. Gareth smiled and tried to look like he rather wanted to hear it, but it was clear that she had lost everyone.

Evie's smile faltered once more, before she propped it back up. She spent a few moments thinking of how exactly to salvage the situation.

“Yep, it doesn't get much better than this!” A man in overalls yelled as he tinkered with a broken machine of some sort. “Hard work, day in, day out, just doing the same old things over and over again, with nothing to show for it but dirty fingernails, aching backs, and swamp gunk in your boots! Something breaking down or getting broken every day is just the icing on the cake! No better home away from the Isle than this big, wet, stinking patch of nothing out in the middle of nowhere, I tell ya, no better home!”

Evie frowned and turned her head to the them. “Once again, Dave, we're a democratic community, and everyone has a voice, but I'd _really_ like it if you made your complaints a little more constructive!”

“'Constructive' my arse!” Dave yelled back. “You're not the one that has to make sure all the leaks are plugged, the water pipes are working, and those pipes aren't crossed up with the ones going to the septic tanks! This whole 'school project' of yours was a huge mistake, and you know it!”

Mal glared at him, her eyes glowing an ominous green, but Dave was quickly distracted when the machine he was fixing broke even more. He cursed, and dove into one of many boxes of materials he had on hand.

Gareth's nostrils flared. “Lady Evie, if you'd allow me, I can remind that ungrateful bastard about a thing called 'respect'...”

Evie forced a smile. “It's appreciated, but _please_ , just let it go… just let it go...” she muttered, seemingly more to herself than anyone else.

Gareth reluctantly relaxed his shoulders.

Evie turned back to the candidates, but the damage was already done: a sizable number of them had already turned around and made their way back to the bus, and the ones that were left didn't look too excited for the job anymore, if their enthusiasm hadn't already been eradicated.

“Enough about the farms, let's move on to the Labs!” Evie said as she started hurrying up the steps and towards a more modern looking boat. The guards obediently herded them back in line and got them to hustle after her.

New Hope's Labs were far from the white, pristine, and orderly facilities that the name would have implied. Instead, they looked more like a gigantic hodgepodge of wires and circuits; computers, televisions, and other electronic devices; and proper lab equipment sharing space with a number of contraptions that seemed to have been built on-site, and had jury-rigged repairs and modifications, if they weren't Frankenstein works made from the corpses of proper equipment.

Science didn't seem to be the order of the day there—or at least, the image of serious faced, stately professionals calmly working with their subjects and taking plentiful, precise notes about their processes and results. Instead, the scientists there argued over who had the rights to choose the channel for the big screen TV, were casually discussing their findings while eating swamp bites  as some would chicken nuggets , or passionately debating whoever was closest to discovering the source of the Smell. 

About the only exception was  a  woman  standing in a sectioned off area of the lab with a curtain keeping it sterile; she sighed heavily as she morosely poured some samples from plastic jugs of swamp water into beakers and test tubes.

“As you can see, even if New Hope's main philosophy is to live  _with_ nature than to try to tame it, we still can't deny that science will only make everyone's lives better!” Evie  said as they squeezed themselves into the crowded facility . “Here, we find new and exciting solutions to problems new and old, improve existing  methods , or find entirely new ways to do things that we never realized we could!

“ I'm  _also_ proud to tell you that the Labs also allow anyone to come in at any time and learn about science, see how things are going, or even perform their own experiments! You'll always,  _always_ have to  follow lab procedure  ask permission from Dr.  Mendez first , though.” She turned to the curtain. “Doctor, why don't you introduce yourself?”

Dr. Mendez looked up from where she was pouring a disturbingly gelatinous sample out into a beaker; the task was about as interesting as watching paint dry if the look on her face was anything to go by. Evie repeated her question, and she quietly capped the plastic jug, and stepped up to the edge of the curtain.

“Good day, I'm Dr. Mendez, head of the New Hope Laboratory,” she said  flatly . “Please, if you ever find yourself in the area, feel free to stop by and experiment, but  as Lady Evie said ,  please, please,  _please_ make sure to fill out the proper forms and protocols; if I ever hear that someone has used  the glassware to make another variety of Swamp Juice, I will…”  s he sighed heavily. “Oh, what's the point…?”

“Don't sound too happy to be here, are you Doc?” One of the candidates asked.

“What?” She said with just as much enthusiasm as earlier. “Outrageous, I couldn't be more excited to be here; seven years earning my doctorate, so many sleepless nights, and here I am, running my own laboratory in a bog in the middle of nowhere, as part of a high-school student's super-sized science project, with my own team of fresh, inexperienced undergraduates and interns at my beck and call.”

Dr. Mendez sighed again. “Yep, doesn't get much better than this.”

Mal scowled. “Real ray of sunshine, aren't you?”

“Not all of us can be as lucky as you,” Dr. Mendez replied calmly. “Oh, and if any of you happen to get the job? My _deepest_ sympathies.”

“ That's very kind of you, Doctor,” Evie said as  she forced a smile  and started ushering them out  again . “I think it's time to finish up the tour and finally decide who's going to get the job, though! I've been keeping them all in suspense long enough.”

Candidates streamed out the door, a good number  of them not bothering to  get back in line and  just making their way  back to the bus .  Gareth stayed behind, and gave Dr. Mendez a look half-way between disdain and disappointment.

“You really should be more grateful,” he said. “Just getting a job is a great honour, let alone a position of authority.”

“Yeah, well I figure that when you're from the Isle, any other field of grass is greener,” Dr. Mendez said before she returned to her experiments.

Gareth frowned, but a guard was already coaxing him back into line.

There was only a small handful of them left by the time they finally got to the guard barracks,  a former cargo ship for livestock  with two rows of bunks and lockers,  some jails,  lavatories, and storerooms,  and  a few offices for paperwork . 

Waiting for them  by the entrance  was a n officer  of the Auradon Royal Guard.

To say that she was not excited to be meeting the candidates was an understatement; even before they had entered, her arms were already crossed and her lip was curled into a scowl. She examined each candidate head to toe as they shuffled in, and from the steely, unimpressed look in her eyes, it was only proper decorum that kept her from groaning or telling them outright that they were unqualified, get lost.

What few men and women left for the job weren't at all pleased  by  the treatment, and were quick to wordlessly return the hostilities; Gareth wasn't too happy about it, either, but he tried his best to remain civil and gave  her a single, curt nod.

The sudden coldness and the mounting tension in the room was impossible to ignore and obvious to everyone, but still, Evie kept her smile up and pretended that nothing was wrong. Mal on the other hand stood to the far side of the room near her, quietly, mentally running through her list of combat spells.

“Everyone, this is Lieutenant Rajei, of the Auradon Royal Guard!” Evie said with strained cheerfulness. “She's going to be your partner in helping keep New Hope safe, as our official representative of law!”

“Whoever of you gets this position, know that I _will_ be watching you closely,” Rajei said coldly. “If you think this job is a cushy position where you can sit behind a desk all day, boss around the people like your own personal slaves, and never have a superior looking over your shoulder? _T_ _hink again._

“His highness Ben may have put his faith in you Islanders, but with me, you're going to have to _earn it_ first.”

“Yes, yes,” Evie cut in. “Like I mentioned in the paperwork, we're legally required to have an officer of the Royal Guard to make sure that proper police procedure is followed.”

“Which means that you can't just pin the blame on some _innocent_ , throw them into jail, and call it a day. Unlike what you're all used to back on the Isle, we have _rules_ here in Auradon, and I'm going to make _sure_ you follow them. Your title may say 'Captain of the Guard,' but at the end of the day, _I'm_ the real officer of the law here, not _you_.

“So, you think you can handle it?”

One of the candidates groaned. “Screw this! I don't need any more of this crap in my life,” he said before he turned around and stomped off.

Everyone but Gareth followed suit, some vocally, others quietly.

Rajei stepped forward and made a beeline for him. Evie tried to stop her, but Mal stepped forward and held her back.

He stayed stoic as she put herself inches away from him. He towered over her by a good foot and several inches, and he had several hundred pounds in muscle over her, but she was not the slightest bit intimidated.

“Well, _Islander?”_ Rajei spat. “Do you think you can handle it?”

Before Gareth could reply, an explosion rocked the village.


	9. Going Up In Smoke

They all dashed out of the barracks as the screaming began, flaming and singed people panicking and crying out as they tried to put themselves out or jumped headfirst into the water, preferring the muck than burning to death. The fire alarm began to wail, New Hope's firefighters suited up and got onto their boat, while Evie, Mal, Gareth, and Rajei turned to the source of the explosion:

“That's the fuel boat!” Evie screamed.

Rajei quickly bounded away, her boots thundering on the wooden planks and fiberglass floors of New Hope as she skipped the bridges entirely, leaping from building to building, grabbing onto the rope and old tire fenders on the sides or pulling herself up to the roofs. Not nearly as agile and four times as heavy, Gareth was forced to take the bridges as he followed her.

“Stay back!” She yelled as she dashed across the rooftops. “This is a job for the _real_ guards!”

Gareth ignored her, gritting his teeth as he tried to find the right bridges and connections leading to the fuel boat. There was already a crowd gathered at the nearest  boat  to it, some horrified spectators, others victims who had escaped the blast or just been hauled out of the water. Rajei and a team of two other guards severed the bridge that connected t hem to the burning fuel boat ,  then used  long rods to push it away  from the rest of the village .

“Is there anyone still in there?” Gareth asked.

Rajei ignored him, the guards shrugged.

One of the survivors frantically looked around. Her eyes opened wide in horror. “Oh, cripes! Where the hell is Jack and Mosley?!”

The crowd started doing a headcount, the guards looked into the water and prepared to throw the life preservers again. Rajei watched as Gareth cleared a straight line through the crowd, leading up to the break in the guard rail.

“What are you doing?!” She snapped. “Just let the fire brigade handle this!”

Gareth didn't reply, saving his breath for his legs. People jumped back and stayed well out of the way as he thundered across the floor and leaped from the edge and to the fuel boat. Mal and Evie arrived just in time to see him sail across the air, legs kicking out beneath him, tree-trunk arms stretched out to catch the edge.

One hand managed to grasp one of the loops of rope on the side; the rest of him fell onto the water and pulled him down. He grunted as pain surged up in his shoulder, but grabbed another loop with his other hand and pulled himself up.

The fireboat roared to a stop under him, two brigadiers busy activating the pump, the other yelling at Gareth. “What are you doing?!” They yelled. “Get down from there! We can handle this!”

He didn't listen as he saw the fuel  boat proper, a wooden shed with smoke billowing out of its one door. He listened, ignoring the cries of crowd, the roar of the fire boat's motors, Rajei and the other guards yelling at him to get back, the crackle and pop of burning wood and fuel, and then he heard it:

Faint cries for help, deeper inside.

He brought up his shoulder and rammed into the door, slammed shut from the mad rush to escape. Smoke blew out into his face in a thick, concentrated cloud, making his eyes water and choking him; he backpedaled out to fresher air, took a deep breath, and tried again.

From the spread of the flames, the explosion had started deep inside the shack, all the way at the very back where the biggest fuel tanks were stored. The many containers and metal barrels were still holding, but it was only a matter of time until the pressure inside them got too great and they exploded, too.

Gareth crouched low and boomed, “Where are you?!”

“Over here!” Someone cried faintly.

“Keep talking!” He barked as he scurried towards them.

The fire had spread up to the ceiling; the beams supporting them were starting to burn and crackle, slowly wearing away until the ceiling finally collapsed on them. With time not on his side, he moved even faster and became more determined.

Through the smoke and flames, he found a man kneeling over an unconscious woman, shielding her from the worst of it. The noxious fumes were getting too thick to speak; wordlessly, he helped pick her up and set her over Gareth's shoulder. He grabbed his arm, massive fingers wrapped firmly around his wrist, before he led them out of chaos and to the door, the light pouring in guiding their way.

He vaguely recalled one of the brigadiers running up to both of them with their gasmask and flameproof coat on, helping support him as they all lurched out to fresh air and into a spray of swamp water being blasted onto the shack. He remembered lowering the woman on his shoulder into their arms as gently as he could, before he turned around and made sure that his other ward had made it out, too.

Sure that they were both safe, he collapsed and blacked out.

Behind him, a second explosion all but annihilated the shack

* * *

He woke up in a hospital bed wearing a paper gown, an oxygen mask over his face, an IV in one of his hands, bloody bandages over several parts body, and his feet sticking out from the bottom of the gurney, and supported by a makeshift extension of chairs and rolled up sheets. He tried to get up, but even with a hearty body like his could only take so much smoke and toxic fumes.

A nurse that had been watching over him quickly sprang up to attention, then smiled reassuringly at him. “Hello, Sir Gareth; don't worry, everyone's safe and well on the way to recovery, thanks to you. Just relax, while I go get Dr. Brunelli; she's been meaning to talk to you.”

Left without a choice, Gareth just relaxed and watched as his nurse ducked behind a curtain. He could hear sounds all around him, from the gentle whoosh of his oxygen supply, the quiet talk of the clinic staff, and even some of the noisy chatter from the people and reporters hanging outside, hungry for information.

He didn't have to wait long as Dr. Brunelli quickly came stepping in through the curtain. She took a look at him, noted there wasn't anything that seemed seriously wrong with him on first glance, then sighed. “That was a very stupid thing you thing you did back there, rushing into the fuel boat without any equipment whatsoever.” She said. “You could have very well _died_ trying to save those people.”

Still too weak to talk, Gareth just bowed his head.

“… _But,_ I feel obliged to tell you, we would have had _two_ deaths on our hands instead of none if you didn't step in when you did. I'm no expert on these matters, but I'm pretty sure if Mr. Jack and Ms. Mosley were still in there when that happened, well, they probably wouldn't be here in the recovery room with you.”

Gareth raised his heads, eyes shining.

“As a doctor, I'd advise you _never_ to rush into a burning building ever again, and just let the fire brigade do their job. _B_ _ut_ I know you hero types, so I guess the only thing I can say is: I hope fate stays on your side. Now if you'll excuse me, you have a visitor who's been threatening my whole staff just to try to see you.” Dr. Brunelli bowed, and stepped back through the curtain.

Mere moments later, Evie almost tore it up in her rush to get in. She stopped before Gareth's bed, worry on her face as she looked at him, afraid of what she thought she might see.

Gareth raised his hand without the IV in it, and wiggled some of his fingers.

Evie smiled and relaxed.  “You've got the job,”  s he said  with a proud smile .

Underneath his mask, Gareth smiled back.

Suddenly, a commotion—the crowds outside bursting into renewed chatter, staff trying to speak politely to someone before they were rudely shoved away, before  Lt. Rajei  threw open the curtain of Gareth's bed, a  grimmer  look on her face than usual. 

Evie turned around with a curious look, about to ask if it could wait, but Rajei shoved a paper into her hands and spoke:

“Lady Evie, the report from the inspectors just came in:  _t_ _hat explosion was no accident.”_

* * *

As per Auradon's laws, all operations in New Hope ground to a halt, every single one of the civilians kept in their homes for their own safety, or to keep them from escaping or trying to destroy the evidence before the guards found it. All of the Islander guards of the town were kept in the barracks, being interrogated for every last drop of information they might have had, before they were left to discuss among themselves who it was that might have blown up the fuel boat. Meanwhile, the Auradon Guards kept a tight watch over what went on in the ominously quiet village as the investigators combed every last nook and cranny, an unlucky few donning overalls and sealed boots before they rooted about in the swamp.

Gareth and the rest of the  candidates  for the Guard Captain position  were interrogated, but the  detectives didn't spend much time on them ; it was clear that if anyone had any motivation to attack New Hope, they were the least likely candidates, and even still, all of them had never set foot in the village until that day, so the chances of their being able to set fire to the fuel boat without getting caught by any of the villagers  beforehand  was ni l .

“ I can't believe this happened...” Evie said as she  looked out  the window of her on-site office.  I t had a great view of the entire village of New Hope—a view that was suddenly at very real risk of being dismantled and removed. “Why would anyone  _do_ such a thing...?”

Mal had a scowl on her face as she stewed behind Evie's desk, impatiently waiting for updates to come up on her  phone . “You know  some  people from the Isle  don't need a reason,” she  grumbled .

“ But I just don't get it—they've got so much to lose! After they spent so much time working to get off the Isle and help put up New Hope… why would they just  want to  risk  throw ing  it all away?”

“We  will  ask them when we catch them,” Gareth rumbled as he walked up  beside  Evie. “It's impossible to guess what goes on in the criminal's mind unless they tell you.”

Evie hung her head. “It's just… I thought being here in Auradon, they'd put their wicked ways behind them, like we did...”

Gareth gently laid one massive hand on Evie's shoulder. She turned around and put her head into his chest. Mal scowled but said nothing as he awkwardly tried to give her a hug with his tree-trunk arms and the sheer difference in size and strength between them.

“Whoever this criminal is, we'll catch them, Evie, we'll catch them...” Gareth said as he gently patted her on her back.

Evie raised her head. “And what if we don't?”

Gareth looked down at the lost, scared look in her eyes; with how confident and proud she usually was, he had almost forgotten that Evie was still just a child—two years from being an adult, yes, but a child nonetheless.

He slowly took in a breath, and let it  out . “We won't let them win. We'll find a way to keep New Hope running. Show them they can try and stop us, but we'll just come back stronger  for it . And if they try to pull off another  attack like this ? I  _swear,_ I will catch them myself and bring them  before you. _”_

The scared look in Evie's eyes slowly disappeared.

“I'd rather you don't,” Rajei said as she threw open the door and strode in, thick sheaves of paper in her hands. “If you did, they could probably sue you for assault and battery—and more importantly, arrests are better left to us _guards_ than you _civilians,”_ she spat.

Evie pulled away from Gareth and glared at Rajei. “The Guard Captain is allowed to make legal arrests like you do, Lieutenant,” she replied just as coldly.

“ Only if the crime is committed by residents of New Hope.” Rajei snapped back. “ And  I do believe the  legislation  assumed the criminals in question were to be petty thieves, noisy neighbours, and drunkards, not  _terrorists and arsonists_ .  L et's not waste any more of my precious time arguing rhetoric  and law , shall we?”  She  said as she marched over to the desk and  dropped the papers with dull thumps . 

She and Mal shared mutually disdainful looks. “These are first official reports, a copy for each of you,” Rajei said. “Don't get your hopes up, because it's all basically a lot of cruft that says we have absolutely no clue who did it.”

“And you needed to come all the way here to give it to us?” Mal asked.

“No,” Rajei turned around  to Evie. “ I came here to tell Lady Evie this: i f you want to guarantee  this whole science experiment of  yours keeps running, make it a  lot easier  for  all of us  and  boot out all of these scheming, conniving  _Islanders.”_

Mal bristled, her fingers already sparking with magic. Evie scowled, her warm, friendly aura completely, absolutely gone. She opened her mouth, about to let loose a torrent of such verbal abuse that even Mal would have been shocked, but Gareth put his hand back on her shoulder and squeezed.

Evie yelped softly. She was gently coaxed back as Gareth stepped forward and put himself between her and Rajei.

She wordlessly cursed him, her eyes narrowed into a ferocious glare that would have killed a lesser man. “Excuse me, I have an investigation I need to return to,” she said as she calmly strode out, slamming the door shut behind her.

The three of them listened to her footsteps on the stairs leading  up , hearing them get softer and softer. Evie looked out the window again to make sure she was well away from them before she  slumped  into a nearby chair, drained  and defeated .

“ T o think, she has the audacity to behave that way and still call herself an officer of the law,” Gareth said  with a shake of his head.

“ Yeah, w hat the heck is  _her_ problem?” Mal asked.

“People weren't too keen on my hiring Islanders,” Evie replied. “ The investors wanted to be sure that the officer could handle them, no questions a sked .  But , we've got more important problems: the media's bound to milk this for everything it's worth,  so  I need some way to convince the investors that New Hope's safe, and  we  don't need to stop the project.”

“Just hire more guards, then.” Mal said.

Gareth huffed. “As if you even need any more men now that you have me on duty.”

Evie sighed.  “ One,  I can't,  s o many backers jumped ship when I said I wanted to hire Islanders, there's barely a budget as is, let alone for more security;  a nd  two,  no offense, dad dy , but you're only just one man and this is a  pretty  big  village.”

Gareth puffed up, about to voice his offense, before he realized something. “Did you just call me 'daddy'?”

Evie smiled at him. “If you want to keep things totally professional,” she replied.

Gareth teared up. “No, no I do not,” he said as he wiped his eyes, and his face turned serious but calm once more. “Back to our troubles: maybe we need not more men, but a man as good as a whole battalion.”

Mal frowned. “Oh no… you're not thinking of you-know-who, are you?”

Gareth shook his head. “No, I haven't even started thinking of names.”

“Who _were_ you thinking of?” Evie asked.

Mal shut her mouth, but the focused, curious looks on father and daughter's faces made her crumble soon enough. “… Whatever you do, do not try to get Dog into this.”

Gareth shuddered. “A more than formidable man for the job, if he even  _is_ a man;  no doubt, if he can't hunt down our ne'er-do-well, they might just surrender  once they hear word that he's coming .”

“Perfect!” Evie  hummed .

“ Woah!” Mal raised her hands. “ Woah, woah, woah!  H old up, E,” she said as she straightened up in her chair. “Even if you could  _somehow_ get Ben to release Auradon's Most Wanted to  help us  fight crime—which I'm also  _pretty_ sure only ever  works  in the cheesy  action flicks —isn't this, oh, I don't know,  _extremely_ illegal?

“Do you really want to stoop down to their level?”

Evie shook her head. “But what else are we going to do?”

“ Get Dr. Theodor, that's what,” Gareth replied.

“Carlos' dad?” Evie asked.

“Indeed,” Gareth replied. “Dog would not nearly have been as deadly nor as efficient if he did not have that talented machinist crafting all manner of devices for him. The last I heard, he also specialized in traps to dissuade counter-attacks, and keep Maleficent's interests safe.”

“I remember one of those things,” Mal said. “They forgot one to disable one of them in my old room; finding out it was there was _not_ a good day.”

Gareth nodded sympathetically, before he turned to Evie. “If we can't catch our criminal, then we can _certainly_ make it extremely difficult for them to strike again.”

“Here's to hoping we have enough in the treasury for him!” Evie said as she brightened up.

Gareth laughed. “The man worked with literal garbage and the barest of tools for two decades; he could probably arm half the town with the spare materials here alone! Really, Evie, your only concern would be how to convince him to work for us.”

“ And if  he's  the guy  keep us from needing  you-know-who , then he's  _going_ to say yes,” Mal said.

Evie smirked. “Hypocritical much, Mal?”

“Hey, at least he's not a mass murderer and an assassin! Now come on, let's start thinking about how we're going to convince the good old doctor to help us.”

Evie perched herself on the other side of the desk, Gareth stood nearby, and the three started brainstorming.

Little did they know convincing Dr. Theodor was going to be much easier than they thought.


	10. A Newer, Kinder Way Of Working

Dr. Bearington had heard of the practice of papering your walls with your rejection letters, but he never saw the point of it; why surround yourself with failure, when you could just as easily study the reasons why it floundered then put it on file for where it wouldn't be a distraction?

However, he figured that might have been because those same people had papered their walls with encouraging messages first, then realized how much _worse_ that idea was.

“You Don't Have To Be Evil!”

“Just Because You Were, Doesn't Mean You Always Will Be!”

“If They Could Change, So Can You!”

These were just three of the many messages from the posters that lined the walls of the office. Ted was beginning to wonder if having so much poster paper in such a small space was a serious fire hazard, or if the administration had made them fireproof for the sole reason that they could plaster them on every available square inch of space that way. In either case, he really wouldn't have wanted to see any of them again, and especially not while he was stuck waiting here in the Islander Resources Office.

It didn't help that—of course—most of and the most prominent models for all of them would be the original four “Villain Kids”: Mal, Evie, Jay... and Carlos.

Carlos de Vil, the son he never knew he had until little less than three weeks ago. A son that expected him to be the father he never had. The father Ted knew he would never be, no matter how much Auradon believed he could, no matter how much Carlos wanted him to be.

He sighed and looked away from the poster to the dirty cream carpet, marred by so many muddy boots, scuffed shoes, and the occasional hoof filthy from the street.

Ted dealt with unpleasant matters like he did his rejected blueprints and the inventions that simply did not work—he studied them until he had extracted every last bit of information from them, before he shut them away into a figurative or literal file cabinet, hopefully never to be seen again unless truly dire circumstances forced him to remember which drawer he would have to pull open and how many mistakes he would have to be reminded of.

It worked with his tormentors at school, putting away all of their harsh words and their bodily shoving him whole or just his head or other parts of his body into too small compartments, remembering only where they lurked and what and when their classes were so he may best avoid them—and later on, where to set the first few contraptions that guaranteed they were never going to bother him ever again.

It had worked on the Isle with the hundreds if not thousands of people he'd killed and helped kill, wiping away their faces and distinguishing marks from his mind, not bothering to even consider that they were once a person, now a corpse slowly cooling while they were laying lifeless on the ground, hanging off or stuck on the walls, or in one memorable moment, tangled up so badly it was hard to tell whose extremity belonged to who, and if he had unintentionally made ironic the threat that they were going to “shove that cocky little head of (Dog's) right up (his) own arse!”

It had worked with Cruella, forgetting all the sex, the pleasant conversation, and the way she had made him feel before everything went to hell, remembering only the many ways she was cruel, selfish, and ear-drum rupturing loud, having them rush to the forefront of his mind every time he so much as thought it might be a good idea to get involved with another woman, both on and off the Isle.

But now, here in Auradon, it wasn't going to work—not now, not ever.

Not when Carlos and his friends were the poster children of his highness Benjamin's ambitious project to rehabilitate and reincorporate the Islanders into  polite society. Not when pretty much everyone knew his face and his name after his majesty had the most memorable mishap at the fair with his booth. Not when, no matter how much he tried, he could not find employment anywhere for his skills, and had to sit in these horribly cramped offices, a handful of guards keeping watch over him just in case, waiting for the excruciatingly slow social worker to finish with the oftentimes difficult, stubborn, to outright moronic pesons that always happened to be in there before him whenever he found time to show up, and there were all of those  _ damned  _ posters covering the walls.

He really shouldn't have binged on all of those scientific journals and magazines back at his room when he was waiting on employers that never called except to tell him why specifically he had not been chosen for the job; and maybe, just maybe, he should have sacrificed some of his dignity and buy one of those glossy, superficial publications Auradon citizens were so fond of, kill a couple hundred of his brain cells with the articles.

Goodness knew he had much more of those to spare than that of the average person.

He was snapped out of his ruminating by the queue number display playing its lyrical tune; the many, many, _many_ other Islanders in line with him stopped to look at their numbers, probably because they really _had_ forgotten what it was with how long they were forced to wait. He hadn't, but it never hurt to look to be sure.

“101” the little slip of paper said.

Some would call it fate. Some would call it a sign. He just called it a very, very, _very_ unfortunate coincidence.

He got up off the chair that had been depressed, vandalized, and had the stuffing picked out of by so many incredibly bored people before him, and headed into the one office that was reserved for these interviews. He would never begin to understand how Auradon could have supplied these offices with so much waiting room space and comfortable seats, yet have so few social workers ready to deal with their clients on a timely basis.

But then again, maybe there weren't that many of them willing to deal with Islanders in the first place—especially with how rare a breed they had to be.

“Dr. Bearington! Hi!” said Harrington Hansel “Harry” Hauser, the one and only social worker for Auradon City's branch office. He waved in greeting, as usual with his whole arm and with such enthusiasm it was easy to see his impressive muscles straining underneath his cotton button-up shirt.

Ted gave a limp wave in return before he climbed up into the seat across his desk, a very large chair that had to be reinforced to support the sometimes gigantic Islanders, nailed to the floor to keep it from being turned into a highly effective bludgeoning weapon, and stuffed with a special thick, durable foam to keep it from wearing away too quickly.

“Hello, Mr. Hauser,” Ted replied, before he mentally kicked himself for committing that mistake yet again.

Harry's face pursed up in disappointment—quite the sight, considering the man would have been quite handsome if it weren't for that broken nose, and the large patches of scarred skin all over his face.

“Mr. Bearington, what did we say about preferred names…?” he said, more playfully than annoyed.

“I'm sorry, Harry.” Ted said quickly.

Harry's face slowly melted into a warm smile. “You didn't answer my question, Dr. Bearington,” he said calmly.

Ted no longer bothered to hide the resignation in his face nor keep his deep, heavy sigh within the confines of his mind. “You will call me by my preferred name, if I will call you by yours,” he said flatly.

“Which is…?” Harry leaned forward with an eager look on his face.

Ted subtly spared a look at the two Auradon guards on either side of Harry. They were stone-faced and serious to keep Islanders in check, both were dead inside from having worked with him for so long, or the latter just made the former much easier.

He looked back at Harry, and said his name.

Harry beamed, before he leaned back into his chair, looking very pleased with himself, but especially Ted.

He really wished he wasn't but that was—unfortunately—a problem he had no control over.

“Thank you, Dr. Bearington.” Harry said. “That wasn't so hard, now, was it?”

Ted resisted the urge to sigh again, if only because that'd be wasting even more time than he'd already squandered. “No, no it was not, Harry.”

Harry nodded. “Now, before I read your file and see things from your Former Potential Employer's perspective”--Ted winced--”I'd like to get your word on how your interview went!”

Again, he rather wished he didn't, especially when all the information he needed was clearly, objectively, neatly printed on the papers in his hands. But of course, the clear, objective, and neatly printed manner of business was against Harry's work ethic.

He briefly wondered if he could report his poor efficiency, but then he realized that whatever he or many others said, Auradon simply could not boot him for lack of replacements.

So Ted answered him: “I was rejected because our two philosophies conflicted—my ideas were not aligned with their company's vision.”

Harry nodded. “Mhmm, I figured as much, Doctor, but I was asking: how did it go?”

Ted briefly thought back to his interview. Words and phrases popped up into his head:

Awkward.

Humiliating.

Degrading.

A gigantic, massive blow to his self-esteem.

A complete, absolute waste of time.

Yet another reminder that science had marched on just fine without him over his 20 years on the Isle of the Lost, and it seemed that he had been completely left behind in the dust.

“Bad,” he finally said. “It went badly.”

Harry nodded sympathetically. “Do you want to talk about it, Doctor?”

“No.”

Harry nodded again, before turning finally turning his attention to the papers and  _ finally reading them.  _ It would, as always, take him a few minutes to finish it what with him having to read the information, read it again just to be sure, carefully dissect and think of it, then formulate his response—a truly admirable trait that Ted himself did and would have liked in Harry if he didn't always do it  ** after  ** he had finished the pleasantries, and not well-before he had even entered the room.

Ted felt anger begin to well up inside of him, not so much steam or flames as an ever rising level of molten hot magma, boiling, bubbling, and gradually making its way to an opening.

He was not a violent man, in the direct, jump over the desk, grab-you-by-the-collar-then-start-punching sense. No, his aggression took the form of passive-aggressive comments, biting witticisms, and of course,  _ in _ direct violence with his traps, or  allying with someone who also needed the same people dealt with, but for whom maiming and killing with their own hands was far more palatable.

And it wasn't as if he even stood a chance against Harry in a direct fight.  E ven if the man wasn't 5'10 feet (180 centimeters, flat), and 163 pounds (73.93 kilograms, rounded up to within two decimal points); even if at least 4/5ths (or 80 percent) of that wasn't solid, lean, naturally acquired muscle from vigorous weight training and a healthy, well-balanced diet; even if he wasn't doing all of the math and their conversions to  _ the bloody new system the whole world had to adopt even if the old one  _ _** was perfectly good ** _ _ \-- _

\--He need only look at a mirror, see his tiny, scrawny form, and the belly that he had somehow gained even with (or possibly because of) the lack of proper nutrition on the Isle, then he’d know that he would never have a hope of winning any fights of the physical variety.

Against someone like him, the best he could hope for was a draw if one or both of them hadn't decided to disengage and retreat as soon as their ineffectual flailing hit something delicate like an eye.

His  was the body that had made him the easy, acceptable,  defenseless target for so many years; excluded him from all sports, any manner of  laborious  physical work, and no shortage of social circles; and had the world seeing him as nothing more than a  somewhat  portly,  otherwise scrawny wimp. The one that  had made him suffer  until he finally learned how the massive intellect he had  alongside it , the one that used to paint an even bigger dot on him  but  could  now  be used to fight back;  be used to  open the way to much better things, to challenging and actually significant work, and access to the most prestigious of organizations;  be used to get the world to see  him as a genius instead, a tiny man  in his corner office  looking down at the  construction workers and corporate drones scrambling and toiling down in the streets below 9AM to 5PM, five days a week ,  for a barely a pittance, while he  worked far less hours,  when he wanted to, and  for a far, far,  _ far  _ fatter paycheck.

And now here that same mind that had brought him success in the old world, brought him survival on the Isle, was now bringing him nothing but failure, maybe even buying him a ticket straight back to the Isle, if they didn't put him in some superfluous, menial position out of pure pity.

“Do you need a tissue?” Harry asked.

Ted broke out of his thoughts. “What?” His voice had come out weak and choked. Only now did he notice that he was tearing up.

Harry smiled warmly and gently nudged the box of tissues on his desk closer to him. “It's okay; you can cry. Just let it all out, it's healthy, and I promise: I won't judge you, and never will.”

Ted looked at the box. Generous, downy soft 4-ply, in a box painted with grass hills, fields of posies, and cutesy pink, blue, and wihte sheep frolicking and laying about in the slice of natural heaven. He felt his tear ducts shut themselves up tight, and wiped away the ones that had already escaped with the back of his hand.

Harry looked disappointed, but did not say anything about it. “Do you want to hear my assessment, Dr. Bearington?” He said.

“Just bloody get it over with, man!” Ted shouted.

… Or at least, he tried to; it came out more as a whisper, like a dying man's final words as he faced a most inglorious death tripping and cracking his head on his dresser while he was also not wearing pants.

Harry sucked in a breath, and slowly let it out. “I think the crux of the problem is that Auradon has adopted a newer, kinder way of working while you were away.”

“What do you mean?” Ted asked, sitting up straighter in his seat.

“Well, you see, Dr. Bearington, from this report and all the others: your inventions and ideas are just too impersonal, too _brutal,_ and, ah, 'too industrial and efficient.'”

Somehow, in all the numerous other visits he had ever had with Harry, he had kept his cool.

_This_ time, however, something in Ted _snapped._

“What the hell do you mean 'too _bloody_ industrial and efficient'?!” He yelled as he slammed his hands on the desk.

The guards sprang up to attention, readying their weapons and making it clear they had no problems using them. Harry remained behind his desk, calm as can be with the look on his face unchanged. Ted tried to raise himself up by his hands, but that just caused his legs to slip out from over the edge of the massive chair, and he ended up throwing himself to the floor.

His feet hitting the ground didn't hurt, and it wasn't as if he had any dignity left to injure, so Ted spared no moment to feel shame or embarrassment, just calmly climbed back into his seat, put his hands on his lap, and silently gestured at Harry to continue.

He realigned the papers as the guards waited and made sure that Ted wasn't going to get violent once more. When they sheathed their swords, Harry continued speaking.

“After we got all of the states of Auradon’s technology up to the level of or better than that of the most advanced at the time—Old London—we got into a crisis of over-consumption: people wanting more, faster, and cheaper. And for a while, the markets, the corporations, and the inventors agreed, because we were still in the Honeymoon Politics Phase, as we social workers like to call it.”

Harry chuckled, but Ted was unamused.

“Well, as with real honeymoons, it had to end sometime, and it ended HARD for Auradon. We started seeing a lot of habits and practices we thought we'd eradicated forever make a come back—prioritizing profits over people; people caring more for their next aPhone than saving up their money for their kids’ college, retirement, or even just for a rainy day; and everyone just having everything they needed, getting even _more_ than that, but never really feeling satisfied with _anything_.

“ As you might have read in your journals, there was eventually a huge shift in the philosophy after we also discovered that no, our resources weren't as bountiful and limitless as we once thought they were, all that waste byproduct from the factories ha d to go  _ somewhere _ , and we couldn't just keep magicking our problems away with a wave of the wand—because someday, those resources might just be gone, we might literally be up to our necks in toxic waste, and the problem s  might grow so big that even magic couldn't save us.

“We all decided to stop, slow down and think about the consequences of our actions, and what we were going to do differently—because if we didn't, maybe we wouldn't even get that choice, let alone be around to do it.

“ So we adopted a newer, kinder way of doing things. Reducing wastes produced and getting rid of some technologies that were  _ really  _ bad for the environment like the old combustion engines; focusing less on getting more and more,  and  figuring out how to be happy with less and what we already have; looking at things from a sustainable point of view, thinking to ourselves, ‘What are the consequences of this in a year? How about ten years? What about when my children grow up, and their children's children grow up?’”

“Reduce, Reuse, Recycle?” Ted asked flatly.

Harry brightened up. “Exactly!”

“A campaign to reduce the amount of waste Auradon produces. Get it to be more thoughtful of its use of products. Have them take less resources from the environment.”

Harry nodded. “Mhmm! And--”

“It doesn't work, _not one bit,”_ Ted spat. “Do you _think_ I haven't seen the trash barges, how _many_ there are, how _massive_ they are, and _full_ each is? Do you think I and the entire population of the Isle of the Lost haven't fed ourselves on all the _perfectly good food_ you've thrown away, or left to rot and grow stale? Do you think I haven't gone scrounging and diving in those mountains of garbage which you consigned to the dregs of your former society, your undesirables, the ones undeserving of bright and shiny Auradon, seen how many parts, machines, and devices that were not only _working_ , they were _barely used?!”_

Harry frowned, confused and nervous.

Ted put his palms on the desk once more, leaning in as far as he could to Harry. “Do you know the definition of the word 'Hypocrisy'? It's doing something the _opposite_ of what you _say_ you believe in,” he growled, before he stepped down from the chair.

He would have stomped out if he wouldn't have barely made a sound and hurt his feet more than anything else.

Harry watched him go, a mix of uneasy and regretful, but neither he nor the guards made any move to stop him or bring him back.

Ted marched on, out of the office, and to the bus stop, never looking back during his commute back to the government project housing where he lived.

Then, when he was alone in the room with Gareth at New Hope, Kalila with the Fighting Knights over at Sherwood Forest for the latest match-up, and their fourth bunk still vacant and unclaimed, he threw himself onto his bed, curled up into a ball, and wept, trying to figure out what he was going to do with his life now,  and only  coming up with blanks.


	11. Mother Of All Invention

Ted considered himself lucky that his body could only have built up so many tears; he couldn't even fathom how long he would have been crying, how much time he would have wasted, how many opportunities would have closed on him if he had to weep every single tear he'd held back since the last time he had cried.

 _'How long has it been?'_ he wondered. No matter; crying had done its job, expelling all the toxins the stress, the disappointment, and the rumination had built up in him, and he was already feeling the welcome rush of pleasant feelings. He rolled off his bed and made his way to his desk, plunking himself down on his chair, and pulling out one of the drawers.

Inside were pamphlets and handwritten notices, all neatly arranged according to priority and which dates were the closest; he started grabbing papers by the fistful, crumpling them up into balls before he let them fall to the floor. He really should have known he couldn't rely on the government to get him a job; so many things had changed in Auradon, but the one thing that remained the same was that if you wanted to get any job worth having, you were going to have to work for it.

He pulled out the other drawer, a far more organized collection of papers inside: table napkins and the backs of fliers and pamphlets scribbled over with ink and pencil, most black, some blue, and one in a particularly bright, garish shade of pink. He dug around and pulled out what he was looking for: a notebook, its hard cover ragged and dirty from having been in literal garbage before he found it, the first few pages filled up with some barely legible handwriting and scattered pieces of a novel that was not meant to be, the rest of it almost completely covered with his notes, schematics, and important reminders to himself.

He dropped it down to his table, pulled it open to its most recent page, and pulled out one of the disposable pens in his pockets.

“NOTE: Find Connections” he wrote in large, neatly printed letters. Just as he was about the write the details below it, someone knocked, and opened the door with their key.

Gareth smiled as he saw him. “Ah, Dr. Bearington! Just the man I was looking for,” he said as he stepped in.

Ted turned to him with a look of curiosity and mild irritation, pen still in hand. “Please make it quick, I'm busy,” he said coolly. Then he got a whiff of something _foul_ in the air and reflexively slapped his hand over his nose. “Bloody hell! What happened to you?!”

“My apologies,” Gareth said as he headed over to the closet he and Kalila shared. “I ran into a burning building earlier today.”

Ted stared at him blankly.

“That might also be the Smell from New Hope; fortunately it's not as powerful here as it is there,” he continued as he took out a change of clothes.

Ted slowly nodded his head. He quietly hoped his job search wouldn't take him there.

“And speaking of which: how would you like a job there?” Gareth smiled at him.

Ted flinched. Reflexively, he wanted to say no, but then, the rational part of his mind reminded him that he had basically zero connections outside of the Islander Resource Office, and no Auradon project directors or businessmen would be crawling up to him on their knees and trying to woo him this time; he would do well not to burn any bridges before he crossed one.

“Go on,” he forced himself to say.

“We need you to build the whole town a security system,” Gareth said, his face turning serious. “We've got an anarchist planting bombs and setting fire to buildings, and while I and the other guards are busy trying to hunt them down and their associates, Evie needs some means to ensure that they won't be able to endanger the lives of the citizens again in the meantime.” He walked over and pulled out something from his pocket. “Her card,” he said as he handed it over. “Please, call as soon as it is convenient to you.”

Ted took it with one hand while the other pinched his nostrils shut. He read the details while he got up out of his chair to open a window. With a potential solution to his job woes having literally come to him, he decided to allow himself a rare moment of superstitious behaviour and called Evie.

It took all of two rings for her to answer. “Evie speaking!” She replied, a little breathless.

Ted ignored it. “Lady Evie? I'm Dr. Bearington; I heard you need a security system expert?”

Evie let out a big sigh of relief. “Oh, goodness—thank you so much for calling, you have no idea how happy I am to hear from you.”

Ted nodded. “Yes, yes, details, please?”

“We can hash out the finer points and your contract later, but basically: I need you to arm the entire town of New Hope with the best security system you can make on this budget.” She mentioned the numbers, but there was no real concern; if the Sanitation Department let him have first pick of the trash barges before they went off to the Isle of the Lost, he'd have more than enough.

“I'd love it if you can start working ASAP—Monday at the latest, Sunday if you can.”

“Hmm… let me check my schedule,” Ted said, pausing for long enough to make Evie assume he was checking a planner or a calendar. “Both days just happen to be free, but I'll slot you in for Sunday.”

“Great, just give me an--”

“Pardon me, Lady Evie, but I wasn't finished.”

“… Sorry about that, what else were you going to say?”

“I'll accept this job, but only if you agree to be a character reference, spread word of my work through whatever channels available to you, and that I have full control over this project—my word is law, and what I say needs to get done, _gets done.”_

There was a silence on the line. Even if they were both speaking over the phone, it felt as if they were both staring each other down face to face.

“No.”

Ted blinked. “What?”

“I said 'No,' as in I _won't_ agree to your terms,” Evie replied calmly.

Ted paused, stunned.

“I'm sorry, Dr. Bearington, but New Hope isn't going to be your guinea pig or personal playground; if you can't comply by our rules, then I'm afraid I'm just going to have to look for someone else.”

“Don't you want my help?” Ted asked, confused than offended.

“Yes—but not at that cost. Goodbye, Dr. Bearington.”

Ted almost dropped his phone. “Wait! Lady Evie!”

Evie didn't hang up. Her impatience was so palpable it was almost as if they were speaking face to face.

“I… I changed my mind about the last condition—I'll work by your rules.”

His pride reeled from the blow, but he gave it no heed.

There was another silence on the line, Evie contemplating if she wanted to still hire him, her debating whether or not to ask what was with the sudden change of mind, or if she should just hang up on him right there and then.

After one of the longest, tensest pauses of Ted's life, Evie said, “I'm glad you changed your mind, Doctor! Could you please give me an e-mail address to send your contract to?”

Ted recited the free Amail account he was given from memory—goodness knows he had spread that information around more than was probably safe or sane, had logged into it so many times to see it empty except for useless advertisements.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Evie said. “I'll send you a first version within the hour.”

Ted nodded. “Noted. And Lady Evie?”

“Hmm?”

“… I apologize for earlier.”

He could feel Evie smile on the other end of the line. “You're forgiven, Doctor. But, just know I'm going to expect exceptional work from you for that, okay?”

“You won't get anything else, Lady Evie,” Ted replied.

She hung up. Ted put his phone down from his ear and stared at the screen, now back to the home screen with its bevy of icons and apps, all the games and distractions trimmed away from all the mail applications, Auradon Islander Services, and bookmarks to employment sites. It was a foreign sight to him, one that he hadn't even thought could exist before he was shipped off to the Isle of the Lost, and was now apparently a completely indispensable part of most any job here in Auradon.

It was just one of the many signs that he was back to the bottom of the ladder, entering an entirely new playing field altogether, and he did not like it one bit.

* * *

He felt like he was an intern, nervously stepping into their first real taste of their future field, no more professors, grades, and curricula, but superiors, real work, and far more serious consequences than having to do extra-credit work or repeating the subject next semester. He was spotless, well-groomed, and properly dressed up completely to Lady Evie's recommendations, in a worn shirt he had from the Isle that was already two or three washings away from being unwearable, brand new durable jeans, and his feet clad in solid work boots. There was a roll of duct tape in his back pocket, for taping up his shoes to keep swamp water out if he needed to.

He had been relentless and thorough with his contract, but not as daring or brazen as he was before, making a few adjustments to his salary and his working hours than almost completely rewriting the whole thing to his favour. He had done as much research as he possibly could on New Hope, short of stepping into the town itself and asking the locals themselves. He'd even drafted some designs for possible aquatic traps, a design he had ironically never used on the Isle with all in-land bodies of water far too rocky or too shallow or too murky for swimming let alone stealthy infiltration, and the barrier stopping just before the alligator-infested waters of the Strait of Ursula.

He knew that he was more than capable for the job—the Isle had taught him how to defend anything and everything wherever it was using whatever you had on hand to fantastic, often gruesome results. But still, he feared that somehow his work wouldn't be good enough, that somehow there was another jury-rigged security system savant in New Hope, or that the culprit had been captured or given themselves up and thus rendered this whole trip and his job obsolete and a gigantic waste of time.

He hated every single moment of it, especially because he had lived through this exact same experience several decades ago, and the second go around was even worse than the first.

His hired car stopped before the guard boat of New Hope, a little way before the muddy ground turned to wooden boards. Ted reached over to open the door.

“Wait!” The driver cried.

Ted lowered his hand, and watched as they put on a face mask, unwrapped several more flowery scented air fresheners and hung them off the rear-view mirror, and even plugged in one of those gel based fresheners into the slats of the air-conditioning vents.

“Is it really that bad?” He asked.

“Let's put it this way: I'm very glad I'm not you.” The driver replied.

Ted frowned. An extremely encouraging sign, that. But, it wasn't as if he had a choice. He opened the door, stepped out, and got his first scent of the Smell. He had assumed that after living in the Isle, and rooting in the trash barges and all manner of unsavoury places to look for raw materials, spare parts, and necessary components, it would have been nothing to him, but he was so _very_ wrong.

“Shut the door! It's getting in!” The driver yelled.

Ted jumped and reflexively obeyed. He watched as the driver wasted no time hitting the gas and making a swerving U-turn straight out of New Hope and back to Auradon. Whether it was for fear of their own safety thanks to the recent terror attack, or to keep the Smell from seeping completely into their car, it was hard to tell.

He turned back to the village that was to be the sight of his first real job here in Auradon. It was going to be a very big challenge that was already getting the engineering enthusiast in him eagerly rubbing their hands, but the rest of him was already worried that the Smell might do him in before he could even set up the foundations.

A guard poked their head out of one of the windows of the guard boat. They waved with one arm and held out a gas mask with the other.

Ted had never checked in for work as fast as he did that day.

His presence logged, a visitor's pass around his neck, and a mask over his face protecting from the wrath of the Smell (if only for as long as his air filters lasted), he ventured out to New Hope. The streets (or should he have said, gangplanks, bridges, and walkways) of the village were nearly empty except for the guards roaming around and keeping watch atop major junctions and some of the roofs; citizens either kept safely inside their homes or hung out at the only business that wasn’t temporarily closed for fear of another attack, or simple lack of fuel for power:

Zelma’s, the towns one and only restaurant, and it seemed majority of the town’s main source of food.

The boat it was built in used to be a medium-sized cargo vessel, before it was mostly hollowed out, restructured, and filled with tables, a working kitchen, and lots of pipes and plumbing for the bathrooms, the sinks, and their drinks. The only thing that it seemed to have retained from its old seafaring life was the cargo hold down below the main floor, where vast quantities of food locally harvested or imported from the rest of Auradon was stored in watertight containers or gently humming freezers, alongside with dozens of massive tanks of alcohol. If Ted had done the math, if every bit of food had been turned into a meal, you could serve three large mugs of beer, five shots of spirits, or two and a half glasses of wine alongside each plate or bowl, with enough left to give a small portion a second round.

But he wasn’t here to take inventory or statistics; he was here to sit down at a quiet corner at the very back, where a dour looking man was leaning back with a mug of beer in his hands and an empty one on the table. He dearly hoped he wasn’t the town mechanic, who was supposed to give him a tour of the whole of New Hope inside and out.

Ted tried to keep the dislike from his expression as he approached. “Mr. David Mackenzie?”

The man took a long drag of his draft, before he put it down, and eyed Ted. “That be I. You the braniac the Lady thinks is going to save this disaster?”

“Yes. I’m Dr. Theodor Bearington,” he replied as he held out his hand. He really didn’t want to have to do it, but a little respect might have improved Dave’s mood--or kept it from souring any further.

Thankfully, Dave didn’t take it, just slammed back the rest of his drink, before he set the empty mug back with a thud. “Right then--” he burped “--let’s get to work.”

“You’re doing this _drunk?”_ Ted asked in a mix of surprise and disgust.

“Yeah, you got a problem with that?” Dave snapped. “If you had my job, fixing this leaky bucket day in, day out, you’ll know that alcohol ain’t a hindrance, it’s a necessity.”

Ted nodded slowly. “I’m just concerned that might be a problem, is all.”

Dave snorted. “I know this death trap like the back of my hand; _you_ just get yourself ready to get down and dirty head to toe—it's only downhill from here, and it wasn't that nice to begin with. Now come on,” he huffed as he picked up a toolbox that was at his feet, then made for the exit.

Ted briefly wondered if he should fortify himself with a few shots himself. Then he realized that would make him closer to being like Dave, a much worse fate than simply having to shadow the man sober.

“Ey! I’ve got a tab and I didn’t order none of that!” Dave snapped.

Ted turned around and found Dave arguing with one of the waitresses. She was holding a tray loaded with containers wrapped up in cloth, along with a few bottles of soda, their knots tied in such a way to make them easy to carry in your hands.

“Free packed lunch for you two, courtesy of Zelly,” she explained as she turned to Ted and smiled. “In case you two get hungry while you’re working.”

Ted blinked, then smiled back. “Thank you. Please tell her that was very kind of her,” he said as he stepped forward and took it from her.

“How come she never made _me_ a free lunch till now?” Dave asked. “I’ve fixed pretty much everything that ever broke in here!”

“Well then maybe you should try getting them to _stay_ fixed for more than three days,” the waitress snapped back, giving Ted a sympathetic look before she turned on her heel and left.

“And people wonder why I’m so fucking bitter all the time…” Dave grumbled as he turned to Ted. “The swamp bites are all yours, okay? Anything else is mine.”

He shrugged. “Whatever you say, Dave.”

“Good.” Dave replied before he continued on his way out.

Ted could tell that his job in New Hope was going to be far from pleasant. But at the very least, it wasn’t all entirely bad.


	12. Royal Rumble

_Meanwhile, in Sherwood Forest..._

“Come on, Carlos! Kick his butt!” Jay yelled.

“You can beat him, mate!” One of the Sherwood Falcons cried.

“Block! Block! Block! Don't let him get you!” Another of the Falcons yelled.

“He's open! He's open!” A Fighting Knight yelled at the same time.

Neither Carlos nor his opponent were paying any attention to the yelling and howling of the crowd as they fought, all of their attention purely focused on their opponent, determined to beat them.

The Falcon threw a straight jab at Carlos' head, his fist the size of a small ham, arm a hardwood tree branch, both tough like granite.

He just barely dodged it—and a good thing, too, as only a few hits would have meant lights out. He retaliated by rushing in and landing several rapid blows into his opponent's now vulnerable side. Individually, they barely hurt, but with the sheer amount that he could land in a few seconds, it was only a matter of time before it all became too much.

Sweat poured down their skin. Their breathing was rapid and shallow, hearts pounding in their chests, but their movements still calm, calculated, and smooth, as if this were a choreographed dance and not a brawl.

The predictions about who would win tilted back and forth like a tiny dinghy at sea caught in the middle of a violent storm; one moment, it would seem like Carlos was about to lock his opponent into a series of blows they couldn't block until it was too late, before he they would somehow break out of it their own strikes that'd have Carlos backing off before he had the chance to land another.

The shouting and the hollering stopped in the last ten seconds of the fight, leaving nothing but the sound of successful strikes and blocked blows; fingers gripped the handles of glass mugs so tightly their skin turned white, pizzas were left slowly cooling on their plates, the onlookers were breaking into a ferocious sweat themselves as they silently prayed for their champion's victory; even the bystanders that had been ignoring the fight so far couldn't help but turn their heads and watch, the sheer intensity of the clash impossible to ignore.

“ _Ten, nine, eight, seven...”_ The announcer counted down.

Most fighters would have panicked and gone into a frenzy, trying to knock out their opponent before time was up, but Carlos and his foe remained calm, performing the same careful, coordinated attacks, if with a little bit more urgency than earlier.

“ _Four, three, two--”_

Carlos landed three last punches, a right and left hook, before an uppercut into his opponent's jaw.

His opponent staggered back from the blow, before they crumbled on their knees.

“ _KO!”_ The announcer cried. _“Winner: Puck!”_

Carlos threw his hands up into the air, howling and hooting as the Fighting Knights and their fans got up off their chairs and cheered, Jay and a small cadre of the players marching off to hoist Carlos up into the air and carry him back to their table. The Sherwood Falcons smiled, patted their champion on the back, and led him back to his chair from the Royal Rumble arcade machine, a freshly topped mug of soda and the better slices of pizza waiting for him.

Kalila couldn't help but get caught in the fever and start cheering and whistling; even if she was only watching and attending the Tourney games for Jay's sake, she had to confess that it really was as infectious as the ANN sportscasters said it would be—at least, when you actually had an emotional investment in your team.

“All hail the King of Royal Rumble: Carlos de Vil!” Jay cried as he and the others paraded Carlos around their table. He beamed with pride, flexing his non-existent muscles, showing off the sweat-stained armpits of his jersey like badges of honour.

“Group photo with the King of Royal Rumble!” One of the Knights' parents called as they pulled out their phone.

The rest of the players quickly rushed over and knelt in front of Carlos, or gestured to him with dramatic flair. All of their expressions were comically serious or fawning and awestruck for the photo, before they all burst into smiles, another round of cheering, and friendly pats on the back.

“Food for the King!” One of the players said as he laid out several extra thick, topping-heavy slices on Carlos' plate while the others set him back down on his chair.

“And a much needed drink,” Ben continued as he pulled up a pitcher and poured Carlos a glass of ice water.

“And we can't forget, a kiss from a fair maiden—kind of.” Kalila finished, wiping off the sweat of Carlos cheek with a napkin before she gave him a quick kiss.

Carlos' cheeks immediately turned red, Jay and the others laughed and hooted.

“Hey, can I get one, too?” Chad asked playfully.

A few of the other Knights and the Falcons at the next table jokingly chimed in with similar requests.

The smile on Jay's face disappeared. Too drunk on victory and merriment, the others never noticed.

Kalila, hovwever, picked up on it in an instant.

“'Fraid not, boys; can't just do that willy-nilly, it'll ruin the point.” Kalila said, before she subtly focused her attention on Carlos. “Where'd you learn to fight so well, anyway?”

“We've got the home version back at our dorm,” Carlos replied before he chugged down his water.

“Many late nights were spent beating that next level or keeping his win count up, and though grades have been sacrificed and deadlines missed, it was all worth it for the Knights' _second_ victory against the Falcons,” Jay said, before he and Carlos shared a high five.

Kalila nodded. “It's funny how things changed so much in two decades; back then, people in Agrabah learned how to fight for their own safety, now kids do it for fun.”

“Did you ever learn how to?” Carlos asked as someone refilled his glass.

Kalila's smile faltered for a moment. “It was a necessity in my old line of work… and it was a great way to get and stay in shape. I wasn't born with these legs, after all.” She chuckled as she extended one of her legs, shapely, muscular calves and a bit of her solid thigh peeking out from her dress's skirt.

Carlos whistled, many of the boys stared and howled, a few other men and teenaged boys out with their wives and their girlfriends were slapped, or had their attention not-so-subtly stolen back.

Jay appeared neutral, though it took him great effort to do so.

Carlos turned his attention back to Kalila's face. “Want to play a round of Royal Rumble, then?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I want to see your moves! Nobody ever teaches the really _cool_ fighting techniques anymore, like the ones from China, Agrabah, and pretty much everything Dog uses; they don't even let people show them on video, or the movies anymore.”

Kalila frowned. “There's _very_ good reason for that, Carlos. Trust me, being on the receiving end of any of those can only end one way: Ugly.”

“Pfft!” Carlos waved her off. “It's not like we're actually going to be hitting each other—the worst that'll happen is you punch the screen, and even then, you'd have to be reaching out pretty far to do that.”

Kalila shrugged. “I don't know; it's been over twenty years, and I've only ever had to use it once or twice on the Isle, and even those were over a decade ago...”

“I'll go easy on you!” Carlos said. “Kid gloves on, we can even use the first round as a practice round, let you get a hang of the controls first.”

Kalila pursed her lip. “I'm going to need a second opinion on this.” She turned to Jay.

He shrugged. “No harm in trying, right? Heck, you might even be able to beat him.”

Carlos sniggered. “Yeah, she _might_. Anyway, what do you say?”

“Promise you'll go easy on a newbie like me?” Kalila asked.

Carlos laughed. “Of course! It'd be the Good thing to do.”

Kalila nodded. “Alright then!” She slipped out of her seat. “Let's dance, Carlos.”

The crowd that gathered behind the Royal Rumble arcade machine was smaller than earlier now that it wasn't the unofficial battle between the Knights and the Falcons to avenge the latter's loss in the match-up that day. Still, there were more than a few that wanted to see how Kalila would fare against Carlos—and more than a couple that were clearly just there for her, period.

Jay tried to pay the guys (and the small handful of girls) who were giving his mom appreciative looks as he readied coins for the machine, while Carlos and Kalila stepped up to the raised platforms set a few feet away from the screens. There were four pillars on the corners, stretching up higher than most men were tall, high-tech sensors running down their whole length.

“So, these things are how you play the game?” Kalila asked.

“Yep!” Carlos replied. “Capture all of your body movements and translate them in-game, so your character moves along with you. It's not one-to-one, you don't need to punch as hard as you want your character to or copy their moves perfectly.”

Kalila nodded. “If I didn't know any better, I'd have though these were magic.”

“They _used_ to be, until they outlawed it; programming it was plenty easier now that they knew what behaviour they were gunning for, though.”

“Hey, you two going to chat about tech history all day, or are we going to see some _action?”_ Jay asked.

Carlos smiled at Kalila. “Ready?”

She smiled back. “Ready.”

Jay put the coins in the slot. Kalila and Carlos both stood still, letting the sensors calibrate, before they chose their characters. Carlos chose the same as earlier—Puck, a tiny, scrappy man of Irish descent, based off of London's more infamous bygone eras, and trained in the art of fisticuffs—while Kalila chose Hafsa—a woman based off of Agrabah's (in)famous harem girls and their belly dancers, if a little more conservatively dressed, her own style a mix of dance moves, Capoeira, and stylish mish-mashes of other fighting techniques.

“Going with what you know?” Carlos asked as he chose the _Streets of Agrabah_ stage.

“I'm going to need all the advantages I can get,” Kalila replied.

Carlos smiled and held back on replying.

The first round was, as Carlos promised, a practice round; Kalila got her bearings with the game, figuring out how her movements translated to her virtual self, how hard an attack would be based on how fast she moved, and what strikes the game just wasn't programmed to pick up on. Carlos easily blocked or dodged all of the strikes she wasn't deliberately doing just short of his character, attacking only so she could learn how to defend herself, and never with anything stronger than a very light jab that barely chipped off her health bar.

“ _Time out!”_ The announcer cried.

On screen, Puck shook his head and scowled at Hafsa, she bent forward at the waist and stuck her tongue out at him, before the two of them put some distance between them again.

“Practice over, time to get _serious.”_ Carlos grinned as he got put himself into a more proper fighting stance.

Kalila held back her own smile as she mirrored part of Hafsa's stance.

“ _Round Two: Fight!”_

Even with his promise to go easy on her, it was clear that Carlos was the more experienced fighter. Kalila struggled, getting hit numerous times, failing to block a number of strikes, and missing her own attacks; it quickly seemed that he was getting hit only because he let it happen. When she was nearly done for, he finished her off with a rapid-fire combo, a more relaxed version of earlier's attacks.

“Just saving us all some time,” he said after Jay scowled at him.

“Still not cool, dude,” he replied.

“Could you please cut me a little more slack, Carlos?” Kalila asked. “I mean, you are the King of Battle Royale, after all.”

Carlos beamed. “Sure, why not? I'll let you do ONE combo on me, no blocking at all,” he said before he put his hands behind his back.

Kalila smiled gratefully. “Thank you, your highness.”

“ _Final Round,”_ the game's announcer said.

Puck remained in his default position, fists raised up and feet bouncing on the floor. Kalila moved her foot forward, Hafsa kicked Puck in the shin, causing him to flinch. Carlos just smiled, waiting to see what sort of combo she'd pull.

The eyes of Jay and their small crowd of onlookers went wide as they watched Kalila pull off a flurry of graceful kicks, strikes, and well-timed stomps on Puck, his healthbar disappearing rapidly in tiny chunks, while Hafsa's combo counter rose higher and higher into the double digits.

“ _Perfect!”_ The announcer cried as the last bit of Puck's health disappeared.

Carlos watched blankly as his character hit the ground on his back, and didn't get back up again. Kalila grinned as she wiped the sweat off her brow with her sleeve, while Hafsa playfully shook her backside at her fallen opponent.

“ _Hafsa Wins,”_ the announcer said.

“One combo,” Kalila sang.

Carlos snapped his head at Jay, disbelief in his eyes.

“One combo,” Jay repeated with a massive grin on his face.

Carlos slowly turned to Kalila, his expression dark and ominous. His finger shot out. “You, me, rematch, now—kid gloves _off._ ”

“Aww, what happened to going easy on the newbie...?”

“That was _before_ I realized I was being hustled.” Carlos growled.

Kalila chuckled, her eyes turning serious while the smile stayed on her face. _“You're on.”_

Jay laughed to himself as he fished out more coins for the machine.

The crowd from earlier suddenly grew, all of the Falcons and the Knights turning their heads to watch from their table if they weren't already near the machine itself. Someone pulled out their phone and started recording, but neither Kalila or Carlos minded them, too busy limbering up while their new stage loaded.

Hafsa and Puck faced off again in _Guttersnipe Alley_ , a filthy street modeled after London's less fabulous districts. She quietly performed a sensual dance routine for an invisible audience, he threw several rapid fire punches in the air while he bounced about in place, a confident sneer on his lips.

“ _Round 1: Fight!”_

C arlos had the advantage of experience with the game, hundreds of matches under his belt, and all the secrets to the best combos, but  it quickly turned out to be almost worthless as the  first round wore on . Both were  fast attackers , relying on a flurry of weak  strikes , overwhelming enemies through the sheer number, but Kalila was far more agile than Carlos, and Hafsa's dance-like kicks and strikes were a far cry from the jabs, martial arts, and professional wrestling- inspired  moves he was used to.

T he crowd grew bigger  and bigger, the few people cheering for Carlos easily drowned out by the ones supporting Kalila, Jay unabashedly howling and hooting for her  for the loudest.

Sweat poured down their heads. Even if they weren't performing spinning back kicks or kicking their opponent while they cartwheeled across a the cobbelestones, doing nearly half the number of punches and strikes their characters did, or actually got hit or hurt physically, they were still attacking so fast and so frequently their arms and legs were beginning to blur.

On the sides of the screen, their combo meters rarely ever stopped climbing before they hit 20, at the very least.

Kalila lashed out with a mid-kick. Carlos lowered his  arm  to block it. At the last second, she  shot her  foot up , Hafsa's  own  leg  rising up even higher and  planting  her  heel right into Puck's unprotected jaw.

“ _KO!”_ The announcer cried as Puck staggered back, before collapsing on his back.

Carlos gasped for breath, wiping the sweat off his face with his hands. “H-how did you _do_ that...?!”

Kalila sucked in a breath, and let out a happy sigh. “You figure it out; you're the King, aren't you?”

Carlos didn't have time to reply as Puck got up and shook his head, ready for another go.

“ _Round Two: Fight!”_

The second round was even more intense than the first, now that both knew exactly what attacks the other  had up their sleeve; with no more surprises,  it was all a matter of who would slip up and who could catch them when they did .

“KO the King!” Someone in the crowd yelled. The rest followed soon after, till almost the whole pizza parlor was chanting, “KO the King! KO the King!”

A round was only a minute and a half long, but it felt like much longer than that as Kalila and Carlos fought, trying to catch their opponent in a combo, or trying to break out of it and retaliate; if someone had the upper hand, it was only for a few, but precious, seconds.

“ _Ten, nine, eight...”_ The announcer said.

Carlos shot out with a left hook.

“ _Seven, six...”_

Kalila  bowed down and narrowly dodged  it . 

“ _Five, four...”_

With a subtle flick of  her  palm, Hafsa's hand shot out and slammed into Puck's  several times broken  nose.

“ _Three, two, one...”_

The strike could have been a cannon going off, for how loud the sound-effect was and how far back Puck flew.

“ _Great!”_ The announcer cried.

Carlos stared blankly at the screen, panting for breath, his jersey completely soaked a fresh deluge of sweat as he watched Hafsa playfully bat her eyelashes at the fallen Puck, before she spun on her heel and sauntered away.

“ _Hafsa Wins!”_

The whole parlor exploded into cheer, even louder than when Carlos had won the matchup between the Falcons and the Knights.

Jay roared with laughter as he ran up to Kalila and held up her hand. “Attention everyone: the King of Royal Rumble has fallen!” He yelled over the din. “I repeat: Carlos de Vil, the King of Royal Rumble has _fallen!_ Please welcome his replacement, the Queen of Royal Rumble:

“My mama, Kalila!”

Kalila smiled for the photographs; she would have said something if she wasn't almost out of breath. Someone came by with a tray with two glassfuls of water and a pitcher full of it, she graciously took one and sipped it constantly.

Carlos took the other. “You have got to teach me those moves of yours,” he whispered, before tipped his glass into his mouth.

Kalila smiled at him. “Maybe after the tournament...” her nose wrinkled as she got a whiff of a foul smell, her lips curling into a deep frown after she realized it was her. “And _definitely_ after I've gotten a chance to freshen up...”

“Does anyone have some clothes my mom can borrow?” Jay called out.

Several players perked up.

“That's preferably _not_ a Letterman jacket or a spare Tourney jersey,” he added.

Those same players looked down in disappointment.

“I can help with that!” Someone called out.

All three of them turned, and found themselves looking at a girl with purple hair, a black shirt with a colourfully painted skull on its face, three silver beads embedded above her left eyebrow, and the brightest, sunniest grin they had ever seen.

“Name's Raven Hood, daughter of Robin Hood and Maid Marian!” She said as she extended her hand.

Kalila took it, and so started one of the biggest scandals to have ever blazed through Auradon, second only to the day Ben declared he was bringing the adults back from the Isle, too.


	13. Into The Backwoods

“So, I heard you needed a change of clothes!” Raven said as she energetically shook Kalila's hand. “Well, lucky for you, my van's _full of them!”_

“How convenient for me, and generous of you!” Kalila replied. “And where would it be?”

“Ah, a few blocks from here—had to leave it some place really out of the way 'cause it's so hard to get a good parking space on game day—but if we leave right now, we can probably make it back here before all the pizza's gone!”

Kalila, Jay, and Carlos discretely shared looks. She turned back to Raven and smiled politely, silently figuring out how best to turn her offer down, for starters.

“Raven!” Ben cried as he came between them. “Hi!”

“Ben!” Raven cried, brightening up once more. “Or is it 'your highness Benjamin' now? Man, I still can't get over the fact that you're _king_ now! You were always the 'Crown Prince' and 'Son of King Beast and Queen Belle' for so long, I forgot that was only temporary!”

“Everyone's got to step down some time,” Ben said with a nod. “Anyway, could you excuse us for a moment? I've got some urgent, Tourney-related matters to discuss with Jay and Carlos here, and we're rivals until the championship is over, _so..._ ”

Raven blinked. “Oh. Oh! Ooohhhh…” She nodded her head slowly. “I totally understand; I'll just be over there when you're done, totally not listening in or attempting to give the Falcons an unfair advantage all the while!” She said with complete seriousness, pointing to a corner before scurrying off in that direction.

Kalila, Jay, and Carlos now looked confused.

“… Was she for real…?” Carlos asked.

“Yes,” Ben replied. “Look, I know Raven may be a little… okay, _very_ strange, but she's a total sweetheart.”

“Still the daughter of Robin Hood,” Jay muttered.

“ _But_ she hasn't stolen a single thing in her life.” Ben shot him a stern look. “ _You_ of all people should know that your parents don't decide who you are.”

Jay looked down sheepishly.

“So that offer of clothes?” Kalila asked.

“It's legit! She heads the Merry Men and Maidens—The MMnM's, for short—a not-for-profit charity; right now, their project is collecting hand-me downs for Islanders.”

“Great!” Kalila said as she broke away from the group. “If you'll excuse me, boys, I need to go see a woman about a van full of old clothes.”

Jay stepped after her. “I'm coming with you.”

Coach Jenkins clapped his hands and stopped them both. “Alright, boys, time to pack up and go home! It's a long drive back to Auradon City, and you've still got school tomorrow!” A chorus of disappointment went up from the other players. “Moderation, boys, moderation! Though if we take home the championship, I _promise_ you we'll all be partying all night with the rest of Auradon City!”

“… Or not.” Kalila said. She put her hands on Jay's shoulders and smiled at him. “I'll be fine, Jay. You forget: I handled myself just fine in _much_ meaner streets long before I even had you.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Go—I'll find my own way back, okay?”

Jay sighed. “Okay... see you, mama.”

“I'll see you around, boys.”

Carlos chuckled as he, Ben, and Jay walked off to rejoin the other players. “Overprotective of your mom much, Jay?”

“Hey, at least she showed up to the game.”

Ben winced. “Ouch, Jay, that was _low_...”

Kalila quietly shook her head. She decided to deal with it a later time, when she wasn't wearing sweat-soaked, smelly clothes.

Raven lit up as she walked back to her. “Don't worry: I won't try any tricks or coax you into revealing the details about that meeting— _Falcons Fight Fair, First and Foremost!_ ” She recited with pride.

Kalila politely smiled at her. “Good to know—now about those clothes?”

“Just follow me!” Raven said, before she marched on out of the pizza parlor and into the streets of Sherwood Forest with Kalila.

She looked at the buildings around them—still the stone and mortar structures they were before the Great Uniting. Even if there were some obviously new constructions, the designers had gone through great trouble ensuring that it at least looked like it hadn't been built within the last two decades with modern techniques and materials, and more so that the forest around it was barely touched.

“Not much has changed here in Sherwood Forest, has it?” She mused.

“Oh, definitely: it's one of the big reasons the locals and tourists love it, like time just froze here and never thawed out.” Raven replied as they walked. “We've got a power grid, internet service, ATM's, cars, paved roads, traffic systems, cell reception, and indoor plumbing, but that's about it: everything else is done almost _exactly_ the way it was back before the Great Uniting.”

Kalila smiled as a group of people walked by, some of both genders in simple tunics, the rest of the women in floor length dresses complete with veils for their heads, and of course, the men were all wearing tights.

“I see fashion remains untouched, too,” she said after they passed them by.

Raven chuckled. “Don't be fooled: they're just wearing Medieval Retro, the latest, hottest fashion trend sweeping us folks here up North.”

Kalila smirked. “You mean _exactly_ what they used to wear before the Great Uniting?”

“Made with modern materials, and branded and sold by modern companies, some of them not even based here in Sherwood Forest,” Raven continued with less enthusiasm than earlier. “Just another manifestation of the 'Once Upon A Time' trend—most everyone's suddenly craving everything that didn't just come from yesteryear, it's decades to thousands of years before, relative to which state you were from originally.”

Raven paused. “Frankly, it gets me really worried...” She muttered.

“How so?” Kalila asked.

She forced a smile. “Well, for starter's, there's _quite_ a lot of guys who I'd _really_ rather not see in tights...”

Kalila laughed and let the question die in the least awkward way possible.

The two of them slowed to a stop at a curb. A handful of cars started moseying along past them, barely going faster than 20 or so mile per hour, but the crossing light was red, and neither were interested in breaking Auradon's laws.

“… _Sooo_ , how are you liking it here in Auradon?” Raven asked.

Kalila smiled. “Very much! Before, the only thing that mattered to me was being with Jay again, but after sleeping in a room with four walls, a clean floor, and a non-leaking roof, with a bed that isn't lumpy or rotting, AND with both my eyes safely closed the whole night… well, you'll have to drag me back to the Isle kicking and screaming, I tell you that,” she chuckled.

Raven winced.

“… My apologies, I should have used a different metaphor.”

“Oh, no, _no!_ It's okay! It's _okay!_ It's just… bad memories.” The light turned green, they crossed the street in silence. “… Anyway, everything all good on your front?” Raven continued. “No problems? No people acting, you know... _weird_ around you?”

“Yes, no, and—unless staring and/or drooling, making awkward compliments, and making one too many bad-pick up lines counts as 'weird'--no.” Kalila gave her a hard look. “Why do you ask?”

“Just concerned!” Raven replied. When Kalila kept on silently boring holes into her with her eyes, she continued, “The Islander Rescue and Rehabilitation Initiative wasn't exactly the most popular government project, inside or outside of congress”

Which was putting it lightly.

“There was a lot of hubbub in the senate before it was even drafted, and _don't even get me started_ on all the letters the governors got from their constituents after the official declaration was made, and all the people on social media could confirm, yes, Ben _was_ bringing the adult Islanders over to Auradon and it wasn't just crazy rumours.

“I'm sure you heard it had to take a monarchical veto to sign it into law—the second one we've had after Ben's first proclamation with the Original Four.” Raven sighed in relief. “Also one of the few times I was glad that the citizens don't have the power to reverse the law or impeach Ben, like Old London did.

“Things aren't exactly crime on the streets, anarchy as far as the eye can see, and the 'complete dissolution of our peaceful way of living' as some of the more conservative commentators have said, and more people are fine with the Islanders than _anyone_ thought they would be, but there's still a lot of people who haven't accepted that it's looking like you're all here to stay.

Raven sucked in a breath and looked to the side. “Not to mention, some politicians are promising to kick you guys back to the Isle for this upcoming election season...” She muttered darkly.

“I thought you got rid of all the problematic ones after the Great Uniting?” Kalila asked.

“We did,” Raven replied, the light in her eyes disappearing. “But, as a lot of us have sadly learned: power corrupts even the best of us, and you can have a 100%, honest politician with only the people's best interests in heart, but they're still a bigot, ignorant, and horribly incompetent.”

She sucked in a deep breath, and sighed. “Auradon isn't perfect—far from it. And I _know_ these are only human beings, or they're magical beings, but there are problems that you can't solve with just the wave of a wand, with or without the laws against its use. You could argue that it's only been 20 years, but then you look at all the other ways we've advanced leaps and bounds, the problems we've fixed years or even _decades_ earlier than the most optimistic estimates said, and you start to wonder why so many things are still lagging behind...”

They walked in silence for a moment.

Raven laughed awkwardly. “Well, _wow_ , that conversation swerved into a _really_ dark place! Sorry about that, I, uh, kinda have a problem with not knowing when to shut up about something I'm really passionate about; when you get me started on those, I just have to keep going, and going, and _going_ until… well, somebody stops me, or even I realize I've been talking for _way_ too long.”

Kalila nodded slowly, unsure of how to react.

Raven stopped and looked at the buildings around them. “Oh hey, what a coincidence: this is right where I parked my van! Come on, it's this way!” She cried as she dashed down an alley, back to her perky, cheerful self.

Kalila paused, shrugged, and followed after her.

Whatever lingering doubts about Raven's intentions were dispelled when she saw her van: a bright, cheerful red, along with having an incredibly obvious graphic of colourful men and women in tights and tunics, “The Merry Men and Maidens” underneath in stylish, but easily-read lettering. Even outside of the green, brown, and grey of Sherwood Forest, the car would not only stick out like a sore thumb, it'd be screaming “Look at me!” at all passersby, people near windows, and the traffic enforcers watching the street cameras.

Raven herself was busy opening the back doors, fiddling with a whole mess of locks and padlocks, many of them clearly aftermarket modifications if she hadn't jury rigged and welded them on herself. “This might take a while, sorry!” She said as she spun a combination lock. “I transport a lot of precious cargo most days, and though you can keep doors unlocked and your windows open in Auradon, it never hurts to be careful, as my dad always says!”

Kalila smirked. “There isn't anything stolen from the rich you're planning to give to the poor in there, right?”

“Oh, heck no!” Raven cried as undid the last lock. “I guarantee you, _everything_ in here was either willingly donated, or picked up fair and square from public property! And without further ado, your change of clothes!”

She threw open the double doors, stepped to the side, and gestured to them with the most overdramatic flair and the brightest smile Kalila had ever seen.

She was just as delighted to see the boxes of clothes, too... until she started rummaging through them and finding out what they were exactly: sweaters that had clearly been stretched out far past the point of being “a little loose,” cheesy bowling team shirts with the most ridiculous logos and some of the most unfortunate names she'd ever seen, and more than a couple of outfits that the former owners probably needed to get rid of in a hurry, but couldn't just throw them into the trash.

“Sorry if the selection's a little… limited.” Raven said.

Kalila sighed quietly. “I'll manage.” She said, before she pulled the doors closed and got changed.

The outfit she made for herself far from fashionable, and she had to tie up many knots just to make sure they wouldn't fall off her shoulders, but they were dry, warm, and made of comfortable materials. It was a shame some of the ugliest, most unfortunate sweaters she had ever seen seemed to have been made of the essence of clouds; much as she would have loved their warmth and comfort, she just wasn't ready to walk around with a giant plush red nose sticking out from a reindeer's face on her chest.

Raven whistled as Kalila opened the back doors again. “Looking smoking, Kalila!” She said, throwing her an appreciative look.

“Thanks, but not as hot as I'd want to be,” she replied.

“You'll be able to get home and get back in your usual killer outfits soon, right?” Raven smiled.

Kalila sighed as she sat down on the edge. “I _wish_. The tournament's the only reason I got off the Isle; aside from some extra dollars I made selling chintzy jewelry to some Auradon folks chomping at the bit for all things Islander, I'm _broke.”_

“No job yet? Because I can help with that.”

“So long as it pays well, and doesn't leave me vulnerable to men and the occasional woman basically salivating over me and tossing bad pick-up lines while never actually buying what I'm selling, I'll take it,” Kalila deadpanned.

Raven paused, an idea that had been brewing in the back of her head suddenly rushing to the forefront of her mind, forgetting to hit the brakes too late, and slamming to a stop in the front of her skull.

Kalila raised her eyebrows at her and looked concerned. “You okay, Raven…?”

“Have you ever heard of Prestogram, Kalila?” She asked quickly.

“That place where they put up all the photos of what they're having for meals, pictures of people in front of mirrors, along with those shots with the terrible filters?”

“Yes, but it's also a _fantastic_ place for advertising for fashion brands—especially if _we've_ got a killer model who can pull off the look and get followers like the Pied Piper does rats.”

Kalila shot her a finger gun. “That was a terrible analogy, but you have my interest...”

Raven pulled out her keys. “Strap yourself in, Kalila, we're going into the Backwoods!”

“Haven't heard of that place before,” Kalila replied as she pulled the doors shut, climbed over the boxes and into the van's back seats.

“Well you're going to be in for a _very_ pleasant surprise when we get there!” Raven said as she climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine.

It quietly purred to life. The van silently pulled out of the alley and back onto the street. Then the speakers exploded.

At first, Kalila assumed the car had self-destructed with a loud, chaotic discord not unlike a violent clash between two desperate armies in no man's land, before the lyrics kicked in and she realized this was supposed to be _music_ —though she wondered when exactly screaming words so loud they were almost unintelligible came into fashion.

“The Black Rose Society with their hit song, Dream of Knives!” Raven yelled over the din. “You like it?!” She continued as she started driving down the streets as fast as the speed limits would let her.

“Well, it _certainly_ isn't anything like I'd ever heard from Agrabah, that's for sure!” Kalila yelled in reply.

“WHAT?!”

“IT'S _LOUD!”_

Raven flinched, and quickly turned the volume down. “Hah, sorry about that! but there's only one way to enjoy Black Rose, and that's loud enough to feel the bass in your chest! So, how was it...?” She gave Kalila an eager smile through the rearview mirror, before she shifted her attention back to the road.

“It was… different.” Kalila said.

“Is it ever~?” Raven squealed as she made a hard turn off the paved streets and onto a dirt path leading deep into the woods. Her voice shook as she drove over the uneven road, the van's suspension and four-wheel drive unable to compensate for all the rocks and ruts in the ground. “I remember the first time I ever heard Black Rose—I was six years old, and they were still mostly an underground movement, didn't even sell online, they were that afraid of getting shut down! I'd never even _thought_ music could _be_ like that; up until then, it was just either those sugary pop songs everyone seems to love, or all the symphonies and arrangements at the balls and the fancy parties from before the Great Uniting.

“I mean, nothing against those, but it's just not as… _raw_ , and powerful, and _beautiful_ in the way metal is.”

Kalila nodded and smiled politely, even if Raven was facing the road and she was praying she'd keep it that way. “How'd you hear about them?” She asked as she gripped the bottom of her seat.

Raven grinned. “My dad and I were doing some political work here—now look out the window for me, please?.”

Kalila did. Her jaw dropped.

If it weren't for the familiar woodlands surrounding the area and the vibrant trees spread all over its streets, she could have sworn she'd left Sherwood Forest altogether and found herself in a cleaner, more well-maintained version of the Isle. The people were far from the proper and prim appearances of the royals, or the scruffy, grimy-from-honest work look of commoners; these were men, women, and everyone else in the spectrum whose pants and shirts were torn up intentionally, whose clothes were made of leather as a matter of style, not protection, and whose dresses had their skirts cut dangerously short, their backs dipping low to being non-existent, or a man was wearing them and absolutely _killing_ it with those perfectly matched high heels as he strutted down the street.

Gold, silver, and precious stones were abundant here, but as piercings and rings for eyebrows, noses, belly buttons, and everywhere else they damn well pleased; buckles for leather boots reaching up to the backs of their knees; or studs on belts, vests, jackets, chokers, collars wristbands, and everything else they wanted them on.

Music blasted from store fronts and parked cars; more Black Rose Society and other metal bands, alongside genres Kalila would come to know as rock, punk, alternative, and all their numerous derivatives and fusions. One half of a store offered tattoos and piercings, the other was a doctor's clinic specializing in “Everything you ever wanted to know, but was too afraid to ask. (Really, everything, just ask.)”

She marveled as a woman who looked straight from a twisted version of London's Victorian era mostly in hot pinks happily chatted away with a plainly dressed man holding hands with his leather-clad boyfriend, while a goblin made them both smoothies, “guaranteed 100% organic and locally sourced.”

“Welcome to the Backwoods, the United States of Auradon's unofficial sanctuary for everyone and anyone that never really fit in with the mainstream,” Raven said with pride. “Here, you can be who you want to be, all day long, without fear of discrimination or ridicule, so long as you don't step on anyone else's toes, or be a jerk about it.”

Kalila whistled, a huge smile on her face. “Evilness, it's like the Isle without all of the bad parts!”

“Funny you should mention that!” Raven said. “After the Great Uniting, this place was where most of the Merry Men moved; they weren't exactly _bad guys_ , but they weren't exactly very _good people_ , their jobs being stealing from others and all.

“But, that's history and getting dark and overtly political again, and we're here to go _shopping_!”

Immediately after, she swung the van into the curb, somehow managing a perfectly smooth curve, and not hitting pedestrians or other cars. The vehicle tilted dangerously over the sidewalk for a moment before the suspension kicked in and pulled it back onto all four wheels.

Kalila suddenly understood why everyone in Auradon was so keen on wearing seatbelts when she picked herself up off the floor.

Raven killed the engine, undid her seatbelt, and bolted out of the driver's seat. “Come on, come on!” She said as she threw open the side door. “I know the perfect item you need for your new wardrobe and the first photo on your Prestogram!”

“I don't have a Prestogram,” Kalila replied as she was pulled out onto the street.

“You will after we're done today!” Raven replied as she threw the door shut and hauled Kalila into a store.

Pants lined the shelves, hung off the racks, were snugly fit over the mannequins, and were sometimes the only thing the models in their advertising wore. Some were whole, some were cut into short shorts, some had rips and tears in them, and almost all of them came in an even bigger variety of fits—skinny, straight, bootcut, and so on. However, every single one of them was made of one single material:

Denim.

Before Kalila knew it, a woman in one such pair of pants, flannel shirt, and a stylish pair of leather riding boots was on her with measuring tape, saying, “'Scuse me,” before she started measuring everything about her from the waist down. Raven giddily watched from the sides.

The cowboy—or was it cowgirl?--expertly rolled up their tape, and said, “It'll be a few minutes' alterations—we don't get many folks with your proportions, ma'am.”

“Go right on ahead, we'll be at the dressing rooms!” Raven said as she grabbed Kalila's arm again.

Though she would have liked it if she'd slowed down and at least _asked_ if she was ready to be hauled off yet again, Kalila supposed this wasn't _nearly_ as bad as some of the other things she'd been forced to do or the places she'd been taken to.

Some time later, that same female cowboy from earlier returned with a pair of jeans—particularly wide at the hips but narrowing down dramatically as it rose up at the waist and at the legs. “Ain't a perfect fit, but that's what bathtubs are for,” she said as she handed it over to Raven.

“Thank you!” She said, before she pulled back the curtains on one of the dressing room stall's, and handed the jeans over to Kalila.

She took the pants, and stepped in, Raven shutting the curtain behind her. Kalila dropped the pair she was wearing and put on the jeans. Aside from a little effort getting them up past her wide hips, they were a snug fit, as if they were made specifically for her.

“Well, how are they?” Raven asked excitedly.

Kalila threw back the curtain. “Comfortable, but I honestly don't see the point.”

Raven chuckled. “Pull your dress up, turn to the side, and look in the mirror.”

Kalila did. Her eyes widened, before she grinned and gave an appreciative whistle at the sight of her rear, already impressive but _greatly_ enhanced by the denim hugging it. “ _Now_ I see it...” she was about to pull her dress back down, then stopped. “Mind if I?”

Raven smiled. “Be my guest.”

Kalila started tearing off most of the hand-me down shirt she wore, till the hem of it fell just an inch above her waist, left a tiny bit of skin uncovered, and her jeans completely uncovered. She let the leftover fabric fall off her hand and started admiring herself in the mirror.

“Better,” she hummed. “Much, _much_ better…”

Raven pulled out her phone's camera, about to take a shot, before she handed it over to Kalila. “Care to do the honours?”

“With pleasure.” Kalila replied as she took her camera, posed, and took a selfie.

“Nice!” Raven replied as she looked at the result. “You been taking selfies for a while?”

Kalila chuckled. “That's my first one, actually—but I guess you can say I know how to show off my best~”

Raven beamed. “Oh, I can just tell you are going to love this job I've got in mind… _but first,_ we need to get you the rest of your new wardrobe.” She said as he pulled out her wallet.

While Kalila had only ever owned an Islander ATM card in an unappealing shade of dull blue, she instinctively knew that the bright, silvery sheen of Raven's own card could only mean _good_ things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Black Rose Society is a fictional band made up for this fic.


	14. Of Partial Pardons, Problematic Pasts, and Virtuous Vigilantes (1 of 3)

The actual act was as simple as signing his name on a scroll—nothing new—but Ben couldn't even begin to grasp the potential consequences, what future cases might use this as precedent, how many aspects of Auradon were going to get affected by this decision, and how badly.

The one thing he did know, however, was that it needed to be done.

Pretty much all of his advisers had said “No,” as did the other members of government and leaders he'd consulted.

In one of the rare occasions that he'd consulted both Cogsworth and Lumiere for matters more complex than what theme they would have for that year's annual ball, the two of them had unanimously, instantly agreed to disagree with him, even if their reasons were extremely different—in length, how passionately they said it, and how harsh their language was, among others.

When he'd talked with his mother and father, sat them down, chatted about nothing at all to alert them that he was about to talk about Something Very Serious Indeed, they'd remained quiet for a long while, before his mother spoke up and said:

“You're the King, Ben. We trust you'll know what to do.”

Ben was alone in his office, as he often was. There were no witnesses to the signing, so even though there was scarcely a soul in Auradon that didn't know the document existed, he was the only person who knew that it was now law, and effective immediately. He could have destroyed the scroll, “accidentally” lost it, or simply scribbled over his signature several times over and rendered it invalid, legally speaking.

But that would be the cowardly thing to do, and a King was not cowardly—they were brave.

And Ben was really, _very_ glad the definition of 'Bravery' was acting _in spite_ of fear, because frankly, he was _terrified._

* * *

The guards stationed at the border that separated the northbound highway and Auradon City proper sighed as they saw a van pull up. They looked at the details taken off the license plate—registered to one “Raven Dove Hood,” permanent residence in Sherwood Forest, no traffic violations of any sort, though there were numerous complaints from homeowners, business owners, and law enforcement about her van loitering around streets for far too long while she and her Merry Men and Women were out looking for donations or hunting for second-hand items. Then, they looked at the time on the corner of their monitor:

12:37 AM.

An hour thirty-seven minutes after Islander's curfew. Which according to the newly enacted laws, meant that they couldn't just do a simple inspection of the driver's seat and wave them through in a minute or less, they had examine the whole car to ensure that there wasn't any funny business going on, like people trying to avoid the surveillance at the dormitories, smuggling contraband under the cover of night, or trying to organize yet another late-night, underground street racing league.

The two guards looked at each other, back at the monitor—the van was obediently rolling to a stop before the boom gate—then at each other.

“I got the last one, you take this one,” the male guard said.

“ _No way!”_ The female guard replied. “ _I_ was the one that had to deal with those guys trying to smuggle in all that _rank_ fish paste earlier, that has to count for at least two cars!”

“The agreement was we take turns with each car, not counting bathroom breaks,” he gestured to the monitor. “Now come on, don't keep them waiting any longer than they have to.”

She glared at him. “We're changing that after this car, alright?”

“Only if they take effect next shift!”

“ _Fine.”_

Reluctantly, she grabbed her sword and a flashlight from the table, zipped up her jacket all the way, and stepped out of the warm, cozy, insulated guard booth and into the freezing cold night. She came round to the driver's side, where Raven had already rolled down the window and was waiting for her with a huge smile.

The guard cringed; the floodlight from the booth was already obscenely bright, and Raven's excellent dental hygiene wasn't helping matters any.

“Evening, officer!”

She tried to force a smile, as they were always told to do by their Negotiations and Non-Violent Resolutions Instructors, but decided to just get things over with as quickly as possible. “Evening, ma'am. I'm sorry to inconvenience you, but I'll need to inspect your car, as per Section 7 of the Islander Rescue and Rehabilitation Act,” she recited from memory.

Raven smiled. “Oh, no need for that: it's just a bunch of clothes, make-up, beauty products, and shoes back there! Honest!”

The officer took a glance inside the van. From what she could see, every single bit of space in the backseats had been filled up with boxes and bags. Even if she was just limited to shining her light there and not opening any of them or looking for potential hiding spots, it would take a LONG while to sift through them all.

And this wasn't even going into the possibility of there being reason to suspect she was smuggling something illegal, which might mean she would probably be here till morning, making a thorough accounting of everything after arresting them.

“And trust me,” Raven continued, “I'm taking Kalila here straight back to her place, _also_ as per Section 1!”

The guard turned back to Raven, her flashlight pointed at the passenger seat. “Who's Kali--”

Kalila stirred, pulling down the blanket she had covered herself with. She yawned as she sat-up, brushing back some strands of hair that had gotten loose while she was sleeping. She turned to the guard, and flashed a small smile.

At the sight of those half-lidded, sleepy eyes, and the glimpse of what Kalila was wearing—or rather, how _little_ she was wearing—underneath that blanket, the guard felt her heart start to race as her cheeks turned red.

“Evening, officer~” Kalila purred.

“I, um… evening...”

She suddenly felt very conscious of her appearance—baggy eyes from running on caffeine more than sleep, hair pulled back into a messy ponytail with an Auradon City Precinct cap over it, and the official guard uniform that seemed to guarantee whatever anyone looked like underneath would get hidden by layers of body armour and protective gear.

Kalila turned to Raven. “What's going on, Ray?”

“Oh, she just needs to stop and inspect our stuff—rules and all that.”

“I promise I'll be as quick as I can about it, ma'am,” the guard said, standing a little straighter and smarter than earlier.

“But it's just clothes, make-up, and shoes back there.” Kalila said.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'll have to verify that. Now would you please unlock the doors for me?”

Kalila pouted, before she put the blanket away, then crawled over the gearshift to the window. Raven leaned back as far as her seat could go, putting herself totally out of view. The guard started sweating as she noticed the red crop top Kalila was wearing, how low her jeans went, how wide her hips were, and how much skin she was showing off, the powerful floodlights just showing off how smooth and flawless every inch was.

And this wasn't even getting into how _alluring_ those caramel-gold eyes of hers were.

“Officer, could you _please_ do me a favour, bend the rules a little just this one time?” Kalila's face softened. “For me...?”

“I, um, uh…” The guard said, floundering for words.

Kalila's expression and tone changed sharply, from pleading and pitiful to seductive and sly. “I'd be _very_ grateful if do...~”

The guard opened their mouth and moved their lips, but no words came out.

“Maybe buy you dinner sometime? Show off some of the new outfits I have? Get a chance to see you without that uniform...?” Her eyes casually roamed down from the guard's face.

“… I, um—I'm going to need, uh, some way to get back to you, ma'am. You know, if, ah, my superiors decide to penalize me for this.”

“Do you have something to write with?” Kalila asked as she reached into her back pocket.

The guard thought for a few moments, before she remembered her ticket pad and pen.

Kalila wrote on the back of one, tore it off, and handed them back to the guard.

She looked at it—a name, an Islander ID number, an address to one of Auradon City's Islander Dormitories, and a phone number.

“Room 404,” Kalila purred.

The guard committed it to memory, and nodded vigorously. “Got it.” She stashed the pad into her pockets, before she turned to the guard booth and gestured for her partner to raise the gate.

He shot her back a curious, concerned look. She glared at him with lethal intensity. He jumped from the sudden coldness in his bones, and worked the terminal.

The boom gate swung up, and the light nearby turned green.

The female guard turned back to Kalila, gave her a confident smile, and waved them off. “You're free to go, ma'am. Have a nice trip.”

Kalila beamed. “Thank you, Officer…?”

“Cruz.” She replied. “Caroline Cruz—but, uh, my friends call me Linne.”

Kalila chuckled. “Well, feel free to call me when you're free, alright, Linne?” She winked at her.

Linne blinked, before she nodded.

Kalila crawled back into the passenger seat, Raven shot back up. They waved goodbye, Linne waved back, and the van was off, driving towards the lights of Auradon City and away from their booth. Linne stood in the middle of the road as the boom came back down, watching the bright red car disappear into the early morning.

She pulled out the ticket—the details were still there, written in elegant, stylish cursive, the I's dotted with hearts. Linne smiled as she folded it carefully, and put it inside her wallet for safekeeping.

Her partner was scowling as she climbed back into the guard booth. “I changed my mind, we're modifying the rules _now_ ,” he said.

“Next shift,” Linne replied, sticking her tongue at out him before she settled back into her chair.

Her partner grumbled, before the two of them settled back to drinking their coffee and watching the monitor.

* * *

Kalila grinned as she pulled her seat back up. “So, what do you think?” She asked, leaning towards Raven.

“I'm impressed!” Raven replied. “More than a _little_ concerned at how you blatantly broke the law, manipulated Officer Cruz, and undermined many of the key principles of the Auradonian constitution, but hey, we're driving back to your dorm and not held up back there waiting forever for that inspection to finish!

“There's that issue about your vaguely asking her out on a date, though...”

“You say that like I'm not going to do it!” Kalila huffed. “I'm a woman of my word—I don't make promises if I can't keep them.”

“Honour among thieves?” Raven smiled.

Kalila looked out the window. “More like I know what happens to people if they don't...” she muttered.

Raven stopped smiling.

The rest of the trip was made in silence.

Raven pulled up to the front of Kalila's dorm, and killed the engine. “Home sweet home! Well, until you can get a place of your own, anyway,” she chuckled awkwardly. “Here, let me help you unload this stuff.”

Kalila smiled and held out her hand. “Thanks, but no thanks—I've got that covered,” she said, eying the small group of Islanders out in the garden smoking or loitering, many of them male presumably interested in her. “And speaking of covered: do _you_ have a place to stay for the night? I don't want you making that trip back to Sherwood with no rest, but I don't want you sleeping here in your car, either.”

Raven laughed. “I've got a place to crash here _and_ all over Auradon! Us Merry Men and Maidens? We know no colour, no background, nor geographical bounds, just being there whenever someone needs us!”

Kalila smiled. “Good. And Raven?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for everything—the clothes, the ride, the job. It's...” Kalila laughed awkwardly. “A _lot_ more generosity than I'm used to...”

Raven beamed. “Hah! Don't sweat it—what you should sweat is getting the hang of this baby!” She opened the glove compartment and pulled out a small box.

A box for a smartphone, and a rather expensive looking one at that.

“You might want to keep your old phone for everything else,” Raven said as she handed it over. “The Solar Flare takes great photos, and can get internet access six feet under solid concrete, but it _sucks_ at pretty much everything else. Great battery life and super lightweight, though.”

Kalila laughed as she pulled it out. “So basically, it's just a very portable, camera-shaped phone that can upload to Prestogram?”

“And Flitter and StoryBook!” Raven added. “Can't forget those too.”

Kalila turned it on, and swiped to the camera. She held it out the window, and looked back at Raven with a smile. She eagerly crawled into frame, and the two posed and smiled for the shot.

Kalila hummed as she held the screen up between them. “Not bad for my first official Prestogram upload!”

“Mhmm. Don't forget the tags, now!”

* * *

It was getting close to 3AM by the time Raven drove of in the now-empty van, and Kalila got all of her boxes and bags loaded into one convenient train of luggage trolleys, with three men ready and eager to push them for her and help move them into her room.

“What number is it, anyway?” One of them finally thought to ask.

“404,” Kalila calmly replied. “It's just a short ride up, but we can spend all spend a _lot_ of time together after,” she purred.

She frowned as all three of the men and several of the people nearby suddenly turned pale as ghosts.

“Something wrong…?” Kalila asked.

One of them opened their mouths. The elevator doors dinged behind her, opening up to reveal just one passenger stepping out to the lobby. Everyone around her fled, running as fast as they could outside, into connected rooms, or up the stairs, till the lobby was almost empty save for the guards readying their weapons, the trolleys full of Kalila's things, herself, and the mystery passenger.

She felt a chill run down her spine, one she hadn't felt for a very long time, but was all too familiar with still.

It was the chill that told her to go down a _different_ dark, filthy alleyway in Agrabah's slums, to refuse the man offering her quite the tempting sum of coins and other valuable goods for her company, to slip out a side-door, an open window, or through a veil of heavy curtains while her client was busy elsewhere.

The chill that the latest victim of back alley bandits felt too late, the chill some poor girl ignored for her greed or desperation, the chill her fellow working girls chided her for before it turned Kalila was more than right to follow it.

“Hi,” a friendly male voice said. “You need some help with that?”

She spun around on her heel, foot rocketing behind her in a vicious roundhouse kick. She was wearing platform sandals with straps on them, but she had gotten out of trickier situations in far more inconvenient clothes and unfortunate circumstances than this.

The man behind her caught her foot in his hands—a move that many normal men had tried, only to get Kalila's heel in their jaw while they clutched at empty air.

A move that few men could do.

A few men that were _always_ dangerous—soldiers, veteran bandits, and assassins.

Kalila kept her face cool, even as sweat began to run down her face, and a second chill went through her veins, turning her blood cold.

“Was there some custom in Agrabah where you say 'Hi' by kicking people in the teeth, or is that some sort of new trend with the Islanders here? I'm a little out of the loop, sorry.”

Kalila wrenched her foot back, her opponent let it go. She shuffled back several steps, crouching low, and undoing the straps of her heels.

Her opponent raised his hands in surrender. The look on his face was confused and a little exasperated, and he wore little except a pair of jogging pants and a shirt, but Kalila could see well-defined muscles under that cloth, and horrific scars all over his bare arms and the exposed parts of his neck.

“Could we please _not_?” He asked. “Aside from the fact that I _really_ don't want to hurt you, I've been attacked by dozens of vigilantes trying to 'bring me to justice' all day.”

The second pair of elevators dinged. At first, Kalila thought there were three men inside it until Gareth and Ted stepped out, the former in a tanktop and training pants that just barely fit him, the latter wearing a scruffy lab coat that covered him completely.

“He's harmless,” Ted said. “Well, at least if you're not trying to subdue or kill him, at least.”

“And if he isn't, I will take care of him myself,” Gareth continued, punching his fist in his palm for emphasis.

“And how do you two know that?!” Kalila snapped.

“Because,” Ted replied, “he's our new roommate.”


	15. Of Partial Pardons, Problematic Pasts, and Virtuous Vigilantes (2 of 3)

“You know, I'm pretty sure this wall of shopping bags and shoe boxes won't actually be able to stop… well… anyone trying to attack you.” Dog said. “Which I won't. Just saying. Again.”

“A security system has two goals,” Ted said as he arranged more containers on top of each other. “One, make its owner feel secure, and two, dissuade intruders from attempting to enter in the first place. If it can actually stop them if they tried to break in is merely insurance.”

“Both of you, _shut up!”_ Kalila yelled as she reinforced the other side of the 'barricade.' “Doc, keep building! Dog, or whatever the hell you're called? You just stay right there, and _don't move!”_

“Can I swing my legs, at least?” Dog asked. “I mean, what's the point of having top bunk if I can't do fun, top bunk things like swing my legs while I sit on the edge?”

Kalila glared at him then kept on working.

Dog sighed. He turned his attention to Gareth, standing in the center of the wall as guard and part of its structure. “Are you really just going to stand there all night?” he asked.

“I will stand for as long as I am needed. I will stand for as long as I have breath in my body. I will stand so long as foul villains like _you_ still live,” he growled.

Dog sighed again. “You know, legally speaking, we're all the same: King Ben brought us over her and pardoned us for all our crimes, real or imagined.”

“Well, _w_ _e_ weren't murderers,” Kalila growled at him, before she grabbed a section that was slumping outwards and pulled it back.

“Actually, I was an accomplice in many of Dog's marks; my security systems have had their fair number of fatalities, too.” Ted added.

“I've also killed many a man in cold blood,” Gareth continued solemnly. “Only now do I realize that too often it was in the service of the wrong cause...”

“Then at least _these two_ weren't as bad as you!” Kalila cried as she steadied the tower of boxes in her arms. It stopped moving, and she sighed in relief. Then, the seemingly sturdy section next to it spontaneously collapsed.

She cursed and began to rebuild it.

“Look, I know I've got a fearsome reputation, and I'm not going to deny I was a mass-murdering hitman on the Isle, but the rumours, the propaganda, and the paranoia made it all sound _much_ worse than it actually was.”

“Oh? So you _weren't_ the man that single-handedly wiped out most of the population?” Kalila snarled.

“ _That_ was definitely an exaggeration,” Dog replied. “I'll have you know that I couldn't have killed even _half_ those people if I had to do the job myself—Doc Bearington's traps and gadgets helped out a _lot_.”

Gareth and Kalila turned to Ted.

He noticed their staring, and sighed. “I'd appreciate it if you don't drag me down with you, Dog.”

“Sorry. But seriously: most of those guys were going to kill themselves anyway. If anything, I was just a catalyst, helping speed things up. Propaganda like the old 'Evil Lives' posters I did before they all got burned or Lifi kept them for fun; spreading rumours at the bars questioning their #2's loyalties, their main squeeze's activities, or what their rank and file thought of them; faking people's handwriting and sending them letters, gifts, and/or flattering poetry intended to get them to go to war with each other, conspire to kill someone for me, or just band together in an alliance so they don't become a problem if they joined with someone else…

“Psychological warfare, basically. It was actually pretty fun; once, I got a whole gang going two-hundred-fifty strong to disband after I painted something on their communal urinal wall, positioned so they could only see the words 'I'm watching you pee.' when they looked up while they did their business.”

Dog chuckled.

Kalila destroyed the entire section on her side as she flew into a rage. “That was _you?!”_ she screeched, fire blazing in her eyes. “DO YOU REALIZE HOW _PARANOID_ THAT STUNT MADE ME? I had to do _unspeakable_ things to go to the bathroom for **weeks** after that— _unspeakable_ _ **things!”**_

Dog cringed and held up his hands. “I'm thinking saying 'Sorry' will only make things worse…?”

Kalila scowled. She abandoned the mess of opened boxes, shoes, and accessories on the floor, climbed up on her bed, and pulled out her phone. She took a photo with her back turned to the others, and started typing something, which Dog had a good guess wasn't anything flattering, to say the least.

Gareth turned his attention back to him. “So the number of deaths by your hands were were either misattributed or greatly exaggerated, I'll believe that—but what of the murders you _did_ take credit for? I've only heard the stories, but they were _all_ horrifying, like the one you made your victim vomit his own blood all over the walls of _two rooms._ ”

Dog frowned. “That claim was _greatly_ exaggerated! I distinctly remember him vomiting all over the walls of _one_ room, not two.”

Silence.

Kalila put down her phone, and rubbed her temples. “I don't know whether to be terrified of you, annoyed with you, or both—but I _do_ know that I want you _out_ of this room _._ You really want to prove to us that you've changed? You really want to earn our trust that badly? You can start by getting hell out of here and _never coming back!_ _”_

“Fine, I'll go.” Dog said, pulling on the coat he'd left hanging on the side before he hopped off of his bed.

Kalila looked at him warily. “You're leaving...?”

“Yes,” he pointed to the door as he walked to it. “You can watch me the whole time, and even peer out the hallway after I leave, if you'd like; I promise I won't hang out just outside the door and surprise you.”

Kalila frowned; she looked at him, then at the bag he'd left on his bed. “Aren't you taking your things with you?”

“I've got everything I need right here,” Dog replied as he patted his coat. “And, as a token of my goodwill, I offer you this...” Kalila and Gareth stiffened as he reached inside his pockets “… My room key.” He slowly laid it down on the floor, before he kicked it towards Gareth's feet.

“Are you sure you've got everything you need?” Kalila asked. “Because we're barricading that door as soon as you leave!”

“I do,” Dog replied as he opened the door. “And if I _did_ forget something, I'll just break in through the window—four floors on a squarish building with ledges on each storey is a cakewalk.”

Beat.

“That was a joke.”

“Begone, Dog,” Gareth said flatly. “Begone.”

Dog raised his hands up in surrender as he stepped out the room, closing the door with his foot.

When Kalila was sure that he was well and truly gone, she turned to Ted. “Can you build a security system to keep him out?”

“Yes, but it'd be a moot point; he knows all of my designs and techniques, and would probably be able to disarm it in no time at all. That's not even taking into account the vast amount of tools and resources he now has at his disposable, here in Auradon—a trip to a hardware store is more than enough.”

“ _Then what's stopping him from breaking in here?!”_

“Absolutely nothing, unless you count his sense of honour.”

Kalila groaned. “And here I was thinking I could stop sleeping with one eye open...”

“I'll stand watch till the morn, Kalila,” Gareth said. “Rest easy, I will protect you.”

“You better,” she muttered uneasily. “Evilness, Doc—how did you manage working with him for all that time?”

“I spent eleven years of my life in an all-boy's boarding school,” Ted replied as he returned to his bed. “Roommates from Hell were a given.”

* * *

Every Islander Barracks' cafeteria and kitchens were open at all hours of the day, as a consequence of the varied schedules of their clientele, with many of them working midnight shifts and odd hours. The menu varied greatly, dependent entirely on donations, delivery trucks making one last stop before the trash barges at the docks, and if there were any halfway decent chefs in the kitchen that day, but there were two staples that could always be counted on:

Porridge and orange juice.

Dog smiled and peered at the name-tag of the person behind the counter. “Hey there, Morris! What've we got tonight?”

Morris grunted, ladled a serving of porridge into a bowl, then mechanically put it on top of the divider.

“Porridge, huh?” Dog said as he put it on his tray. “Anything special about this batch?”

“It's Chinese style,” Morris grunted.

“And what's that mean, exactly?”

“We use rice and water instead of oats and milk.”

“Huh. Haven't had this stuff in a long while, should be interesting.”

The one other person in line with him didn't look too pleased about his attempts at socializing. Dog got the message, picked up a bottle of orange juice, and went to look for a table.

To none of his surprise, every single table that wasn't full earlier was quickly occupied. Those that still weren't had their free seats covered with bags and other belongings, and the rest gave Dog a nasty look as he passed by, from fear than malice. The people in the aisles scattered for him, spreading out to every direction on either side of him, before he reached the far edge of the cafeteria, deserted tables all around him.

He sighed and took a seat. Those who hadn't fled the place already resumed eating, albeit while casting glances at him every once in a while. Most of the guards left their posts near the doors and good vantage points and instead stationed themselves at the fringe of the rest of the crowd and him.

Protecting them from him.

Being fear, looked down, on, treated as dangerous, evil, less than human—it was nothing new to Dog. He'd thought he was over that, even long before he arrived on the Isle, yet somehow, here in a halfway decent cafeteria in Auradon, it started bothering him all over again.

Dog turned to his porridge and started eating. Boiled rice and water hadn't gotten any better in the years since he was imprisoned, but it wasn't made of rotten grain, the water was clean and filtered, and the pot that it was cooked in wasn't rusted and chipped, which automatically made it much better than everything he'd eaten while on the Isle.

He thought he'd be enjoying his meal in silence and solitude, but not five minutes in, he had a visitor, a brave or just curious soul treading past the border and to his table. Neither the guards nor his fellow Islanders stopped him; it seemed unanimously accepted that the empty space around him was no man's land.

After a moment's hesitation, he sat down across Dog. He acknowledged him with a nod, but otherwise kept on eating.

“So...” his visitor started, “you got a minute? I just want to ask some questions.”

Dog put his spoon down and swallowed. “… Uh, sure. What's up?”

“Is it true you got your whole record wiped out, just like that?”

“From what they told me, it's more they _forgive_ me for killing all those people, than saying I never did, but still, no one can arrest me nor try me for anything I did before my memorable entrance here in Auradon.”

“So you're a free man?”

Dog shrugged. “As free as you guys, at least. Why do you ask?”

“I've got this friend back on the Isle, you see. He was a highwayman—you know, robbing merchants and travelers while they were going between cities? He didn't get cleared to come here to Auradon with me, seeing as he killed one or two people—a hundred, tops, _tops,_ but even then they can't really prove anything—so I was wondering if there's, you know, anything he can do to get off the Isle like you did...?”

Dog shot him a sympathetic look then shook his head. “Sorry, buddy, can't help you there; I only got here because of a _huge_ series of coincidences, not the least of which was that one of the evilest villains ever decided she wanted to use me as her baby-daddy.”

His visitor's face fell.

“Tell you what, though: you said your friend was a highwayman? Was he the 'Talk a big talk and carry a bigger sword' kind, or did he have some solid fighting skills on him?”

“Both.”

“Good, good—that'll work brilliantly for him. It's not official yet, but it's only a matter of time before Ben passes a new bill that'll put up a branch of Royal Guards over there at the Isle, some positions open to Islanders. You go tell your friend to brush up on his fighting skills, learn how to intimidate people into stepping down again, but use it to _stop_ trouble than _make_ trouble, and he'll be a shoe-in for the job.

“It's not as good as here in Auradon, but hey, you can bet there'll be plenty of perks that'll make it worth his while to sign up and keep the peace. Relatively speaking.”

His visitor smiled. “Thanks. I'll tell him that.”

“Wish him luck for me!” Dog said as his visitor got up to leave. “Though, since it's coming from me, you might not want to mention my name!”

“I will and I won't!” His visitor replied as jogged back to the rest of the cafeteria.

Faces were confused and suspicious, but with no one having actually the conversation, they were forced to give Dog the benefit of the doubt—or rather, speculate wildly and inaccurately about what it is they just talked about and why his visitor looked so happy.

Dog ignored them and picked his spoon back up.

Just as he was about to shovel in another mouthful of porridge into his mouth, another visitor came up to him—female, this time. Without a bit of reluctance, she slid into the seat across him, and leaned across the table.

Dog put down his spoon, looked up at her, and noted that her standard issue dress had been modified: the neck plunged _much_ farther than it should have.

“Can I interest you in a job, Mr. Dog?” she purred, giving him a sly smile; she reminded him of a cat that had just cornered a mouse.

“Depends: what kind of job is it?” Dog asked as he laid his arms on the table.

“A very _lucrative_ job, one that makes great use of your skills, one no other man can ever hope to do as well as you can, if I do say so myself...”

“Not interested, sorry,” Dog replied.

She pouted. “Don't you want to hear the details, Mr. Dog?”

“Not if this bad feeling in the pit of my stomach keeps acting up—I'd really rather leave all varieties of intestinal distress back on the Isle, thanks.”

The woman's expression twitched subtly in disgust. “Believe me, Mr. Dog, my employer would be _very_ grateful if you chose to work for them; they will also make sure you are _very_ well-compensated, in whatever ways you prefer...” she winked.

“Still not interested, thanks,” Dog said, before he turned his eyes back to his food and resumed eating.

She was scowling at him, now. “My employer will be very displeased to hear about this, Mr. Dog.”

“I'll take my chances,” Dog replied before he shoveled more rice into his mouth.

She muttered something under her breath while she slid out of her seat and stalked off.

Dog was taking a swig of his orange juice when yet another Islander came over to his table. He was one of those guys everyone gave a wide berth on the sidewalk, and not just because he was large and sturdily built as most hardwood trees were. He put two ham-sized hands on the edge of the table, gripping it tightly enough to make the bolts and screws holding the Formica slab to the frame groan as he sat down across Dog.

He took his time  drinking, examining him from the corner of his eye. Nothing he couldn't handle, especially while he was wedged in a space that just wasn't designed for someone of  his  size, but it was definitely going to be messy and not worth the clean-up—physically or metaphorically.

He put his juice down. “… Can I help you…?” he asked.

The giant leaned forward, pressing his gut into the edge of the table and bringing their faces so close together he could  make out  the individual follicles of his beard. Dog had to suppress an instinctive revulsion as he smelled his breath—it reminded him far too much of that group of people in the Isle that regularly dined on spoiled meat and spoiled meat alone, washing it down with alcohol, and ending up even fouler than their diet in very many ways.

“You work for boss lady, or bad things happen,” he grunted.

Dog smiled. “Yeah, I think being ostracized and feared by pretty much all of Auradon except a handful of people is a pretty low place to be—I think I can handle a little more unpleasantness coming my way, thanks.”

“Not to you,” he growled. “To little girl.”

Dog nodded. “Oh! Well in that case--”

With speed and agility few had ever seen, Dog grabbed the giant's collar and pulled him an inch away from his face.

“ _You touch a single hair on Mal's head, and I swear, I will find_ _you,_ _then kill you.”_

The giant held stalwart, snarling back at him, but Dog saw a crack in his defense, when a single bead of sweat poured down from his brow. He tightened his grip as he put on the Crazy Eyes and prepped his throat for his Scary Voice.

“Don't believe me? Think I've gone soft? Think I won't do it? Well _look into my eyes, buddy,_ and tell me with a straight face that you do not see the eyes of a killer...” 

He let go, the giant shot back like he was a rubber band pulled almost to breaking. In his getaway he ended up lifting the table up at an angle, smashing his head on the edge of the bench behind him, and almost spilling Dog's food all over his lap, but he fled, and fled _quickly_ , which was all Dog really wanted.

The guards made no secret of prepping their weapons as the giant rushed past them. The people looked at all that muscle and hair, fleeing for his life with bullets of sweat pouring down his body, and started feeling their own skin get clammy, hands unconsciously wiping the perspiration on their foreheads.

Dog tried not to mind it. “Since when was 'You are so normal!' a compliment, anyway?” he muttered to himself as he ate his meal, bracing his bowl and juice with an arm on the lopsided table.

H e had to admit, though, being normal would have made things a  _ lot  _ easier.


	16. Of Partial Pardons, Problematic Pasts, and Virtuous Vigilantes (3 of 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise to work on new things and I end up working on those same stories I said I probably wouldn't work on, heh. Anyway, extra long chapter to cap off this long overdue trilogy of chapters.

The room was dark, barely enough light to find your way through with your hands feeling for furniture and walls, your toes at risk of stubbing on something. It was massive, but sparsely decorated, just a long table, twelve chairs, and a cabinet just below the large LED screen built into the wall. Every seat except one was taken, the twelfth seat all the way across the table and the biggest chair in the room—a throne, really.

Its simplicity belied the complexity, the expense, the _excruciating_ planning that had gone into its creation. In the wake of Auradon's creation and the fusion of all its many cultures, once isolated nations sharing people, information, and resources with one another an at unprecedented rate, a small sect of people did not see it as a time of celebration, of openness, of a new era of prosperity.

Instead, they saw it as a time to pull back, to build safe havens, to prepare, prepare for when everything went _wrong_.

They made protected fortresses atop remote mountains or dug into their sides. Bunkers deep underground, their tunnels stretching for miles on end. Or even facilities built into regular office buildings or apartment complexes right in the heart of the major metropolises, especially that of Auradon City.

This particular room was housed in the third, at some unknown floor of one of the biggest corporate headquarters in all of Auradon. There were many ways to get there—through a special authorization code punched into the elevator, a trip through the ventilation shafts, or blindfolded then escorted by discretely armed guards.

Right now, the occupants' attention was on the most obvious entrance: the door on one end of the room, opposite the throne.

Click. It swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges. The light from the hallway poured in, casting the visitor in full detail: a man, in the simple, slightly scruffy clothing of Auradon's working class, his features hidden under a baseball hat, long sleeves, worn gloves, and even more scuffed working boots.

“Sorry I'm late,” he said as he stepped in, his voice so well-practiced that it was hard to determine any noticeable inflection, his age, or even his gender. “Security was a lot tougher than I expected it to be.”

One of the people sitting at the table snickered. “A couple of rent-a-guards and a few window locks too difficult for you, master thief?”

He calmly sat down in the free chair, raised his hand, then carefully removed the glove and pulled down his sleeve. Though his injuries were hidden under several layers of bandages, all the blood soaking them did not promise a pretty picture underneath.

“Dr. Bearington is back to his old business,” he said as he rested his arm on the table, in full view of everyone.

The one that had laughed fell silent.

The one in the throne spoke up, their voice powerful and resonant. “What did you find?”

“Nothing of interest,” he replied. “Extra clothes, art supplies, most of his legal documentation, hand-written plans either about trying to speak to his daughter or get a legitimate job here in Auradon, and a copy of 'Fae Father, Mortal Mother: The Estranged Parent's Guide to Reconnecting with your Half-Human Hybrid Child'. And before you ask: no, he wasn't using it as a dummy, he really _is_ reading it, based on his notes in the margins.

“If he had anything incriminating on him, he was smart enough to have disposed of it already, hidden it someplace else, or taken it with him.”

The one in the throne nodded. “You have done well. Go see your handler for your compensation, as promised.”

“And my _hand?”_ he asked. “I may be ambidextrous, but having _ten_ working fingers is something of a necessity in my business.”

“It will be seen to, you have my word. Dismissed.”

He nodded, and left the room.

One of them sighed as he closed the door after him. “If only one could be jailed for being a sorry excuse of a father...”

“Shame he never hurt her physically,” another chimed in.

“Silence,” the one in the throne said. “This isn't our only opportunity to strike at Dog.” They turned to one person in particular. “Janus?”

“Sir?” sang a chipper, feminine voice.

“Are your people ready to move?”

Janus laughed. “Oh, sir, they've been ready and waiting with all of their questions even _before_ the search teams left the harbour! You don't just announce something as huge as hunting down the missing lover of one of the most infamous villains in all of history, then expect us to ignore it.”

“And you are sure they can further our plans?”

Janus scoffed. “ _Sir_ , you say that like we haven't been doing this for _years_ even before the Great Uniting—interesting, engaging reporting with an agenda is our _specialty,”_ she purred.

“Good.”

“Hate to be that person, but you really think this'll work?” one of them asked. “It's not like this is the first time Dog's gotten bad press.”

The one in the throne smiled. “You haven't witnessed the true power of media—here in Auradon, at least. The king may be the most powerful man in the land, but the true force to be reckoned with is the people—especially when they are provoked.

“We need only wait. You are all dismissed. Remember: We will do what what is needed...”

“… We will do as we must.”

* * *

Sunday evening, when most of Auradon citizens had already gone to bed, Ben signed Dog's partial pardon and it was quickly put into action.

Same day, around midnight, the news was verified and printers all around the world were stopped to put in the new headline.

Monday, four AM in the morning, Mal woke up to a flurry of texts and calls assaulting her phone, keeping it ringing and ringing in spite of all her efforts to shut it out and wishes for it to stop so she could get back to sleep. Groggy, annoyed, and not the least bit curious as to what it could have been about, she grabbed her phone to turn it off, until she noticed noticed all the notifications had one common theme.

For a good while, she could only stare at the screen, her eyes wide open, her hand shaking, her stores of magic threatening to build up and explode. Then, she took a deep breath, shut off her phone, and went back to sleep.

Same day, six AM.

Outside of Mal and Evie's room, the media of Auradon waited. Professional, amateur; print, radio, television, internet; some looking for the truth, some working an agenda, some just curious about what she had to say.

Inside of their room, Evie learned of the news, and watched with ever deepening worry as Mal got ready for school like she did any other day—except this time, she was dressing up in casual, discrete clothing, not a hint of her trademark purple, and her hair stuffed into a Fighting Knight's cap.

“Mal, you really think you can avoid the media? You remember how badly they reacted when you and Ben broke up? This'll be like that, only like ten times worse.”

“I will, I know, and I remember,” Mal said as she stuffed the last strand of purple into her cap.

Evie frowned. “They're going to talking about Dog for weeks or months.”

“And they're going to move on from him as soon as Ben comes back to his senses and sends him back to the Isle. Then, we can forget _any_ of this ever happened, and go right back to our lives before he came and ruined it!” Mal said as she picked up her bag, stuffed with the day's essentials and a change of clothes.

Evie shot her a look.

Mal walked up to her, put her hands on her shoulders, and smiled. “Don't worry yourself over this 'Dog' business, alright? It's my problem, not yours.” She kissed Evie on the cheek. “I'll take care of it myself, I promise.”

“That's what I'm worried about...” Evie muttered as she pulled away.

Mal didn't hear as she was already walking to the windows facing out to the back gardens. She opened it, threw out a coil of rope, and climbed her way down to class, the journalists none the wiser.

They quickly caught on and started patrolling the grounds looking for her, but she was prepared. She blended in with the crowds, utilized the school's still existing secret exits and tunnels, and once, when a reporter asked her if she'd seen herself, she deliberately gave them wrong directions and quickly walked off to the nearest girl's bathroom. While they were off either following the false lead or chasing after her when they realized that pair of emerald green eyes was _very_ familiar, she turned her hoodie inside out, turning the dull blue shade to a dull grey, changed her cap to one that read “VK Chic,” and for good measure, snuck into the vents with the help of an Arendelle Army knife.

The reporters made their final stand at the border of the “No Media Zone,” by the halls leading to the classrooms. The extra guards posted their made sure that not a single one of them got through the line on the hardwood floor, but they were all busy facing outwards, checking the incoming students to see if Mal was hiding amongst them.

They broke formation for a small group of the school's marching band rolling through with instrument cases, before reforming their human wall, funneling students into two neat lines.

Now a good distance behind them, one of the band members knocked on the largest trunk, and out popped Mal. She whistled and shot the dumbfounded and shocked reporters a smug look, playfully waving goodbye before she thanked the band members, rounded the corner, and made her way to her first class of the day.

She passed by a utility closet, and was promptly grabbed by two pairs of arms and pulled in.

“What the--”

Slam! The door shut, plunging her into darkness. The arms let go, Mal pressed her back to the exit, her hand raised up like a gun.

“Do not be scared, friend,” a female voice said, “we are not here to harm you—in fact, we are here to _protect_ you.”

Mal scowled. “And just who the hell are you, anyway?”

“We are—wait, that voice—Mal, is that you...?”

“Yes, now answer my damn question before I blast you and this whole closet to oblivion!”

The lights came on, and Mal found herself looking at a teenage girl, about her age, blonde hair, blue eyes, and a proud, happy grin that only spoke of terrible things with the best of intentions.

“Amelia Lockharte, daughter of Gerald Lockharte, former captain of Cinderellasburg's royal guard BGU, and current Lieutenant of Auradon's Royal Guards, Auradon City division,” she said with her chest puffed up and her head held up high. “And _this_ is my best friend and loyal sidekick, Bart!” she said, pointing to the stocky boy by the light switch.

Mal looked. Bart waved.

“And we're here to ask you help us defeat the most insidious threat to have ever crept its way here to our fair nation, second only to that of your mother, Maleficent:

“Your father, Dog!”

Mal stared at Amelia for a few moments, before she spun on her heel, and opened the door.

“Wait, Mal,” Amelia put her hand on her shoulder. “I know you must be going through a lot right now--”

Mal threw it open and stormed off, leaving Amelia behind.

“Mal, please!” Amelia cried as she and Bart came after her. “I understand, it's difficult for you to go against the ones you love the most--!”

Mal started running, rounding another corner, then jumping into a conveniently placed trash can large enough to conceal her from view.

“Mal!” Amelia shouted as she came round. “Mal? Mal…?” she turned to Bart, but he could only offer a shrug. “Damn, she's gotten away…”

Bart made a disappointed noise.

“Never fret, dear friend!” Amelia said. “As she did with Maleficent, in time she's going to see past her love for her father, and realize what she needs to do!”

“Back to the closet, then?”

“Nay, for we need to get to class! Hop to it, Bart!”

Mal waited for their footsteps to disappear before she climbed out of the trash can. To her disgust, she had stepped on a half-drunk breakfast smoothie and gotten it smeared all over both soles of her sneakers.

To add insult to injury, the bell rang shortly after.

She made it just in time to History BGU (Before the Great Uniting), throwing her foot in the door before a student closed it on her. There was a fuss all over class, people asking her about the news, but she was too focused on finding a free seat to care, and their teacher Mrs. Clarke shushed them all immediately.

The ancient, tiny woman who looked old enough to have lived through most of the events she taught about adjusted her thick glasses, before she opened the several-inches-thick tome that was her unabridged, heavily annotated, and footnoted version of the student's book.

“Good morning, class,” she said in her calm, professional tone, loud enough to be heard, but soft enough to put you to sleep. “Today, we're supposed to be continuing our subject from last week, the international relations and trade agreements of Arendelle prior to the ascension of her highness, Elsa...”

Mal relaxed, opened her notebook and picked up her pen, more than ready for a long, boring class that wasn't related to _anything_ from the Isle of the Lost.

“… But, with recent events, I think it's better if we discuss a much more relevant piece of Auradon's history: the Isle of the Lost. We'll start as we always do: at the very beginning, when the borders were still cooling from being brought into this dimension with magic, and entire nations could be moved to the opposite hemisphere with the flick of a wand...”

Mal dropped her pen, while the rest of the class suddenly took interest.

The rest of the day's classes took on the same theme, Mal's mood worsening with each new subject. Mathematics delved into the unique challenges and workings of the Isle's “barter and petty larceny” economy. Physical Education suddenly changed the lesson plan into basic self-defense skills anyone could do, with a special guest, the coach's twin brother, who had spent the last 20 years in the Isle and had a much greater understanding of how exactly to defend yourself in any given situation. Science delved into the practical applications of the subject, using examples of how the Islanders had, knowingly or not, used principles and theories they'd learned about to make their lives easier, such as making simple crane systems out of trash, treatments for the plethora of diseases in their drinking water, and even brew beer—terrible, _terrible_ beer, but alcohol none the less.

The constant interrogations, questions, and student reporters using a loophole in the “No Media Zone” didn't help.

By the end of the school day, Mal didn't even need to sneak around the school to avoid being seen by the media: the unnerving, lethal, clearly visible aura that surrounded her was warning enough to anyone in that you provoked her at your own risk, and no one—not bystanders, not the guards, not the heroes of Auradon themselves—would step in to save you.

With her new found freedom, she got on a bus headed to the “bad” part of Auradon City.

* * *

The Marigold Fields district really wasn't a slum or a hive of criminal activity so much as it was just _forgotten,_ left behind as the city started to expand, economic activity stabilized and centered in what was now City Square, Downtown, and the Yellow Brick Road. After the Isle of the Lost was created and a good chunk of the population was sent to live there, there simply wasn't enough people around for businesses and developers to justify establishing or maintain a foothold there, be they chain stores, supermarkets, galleries, museums, low-cost apartments, condominiums, or highly elaborate mansions that resembled miniature castles with modern amenities. 

There were  residents  that stuck around— _very_ small business owners, niche interest stores, and people who liked their isolation but didn't want to go completely  off the grid and move to the country side— but otherwise, the place was deserted, windows boarded up, two or three people walking around the streets on a good day, and “For Sale” signs that had  swinging in the wind  for years.

According to Ben, the requests to “do something” about Marigold was never ending; every single month, there was a group that wanted it torn down, period; bulldozed to make room for a “Leisure Center” or some other elaborate, massive architectural project; or preserve it as an important piece of Auradon's history, a living relic from 20 years ago.

But inevitably, all those requests would fall by the way side for the cost of  demolition; cheaper, equally good real estate elsewhere; and the Preservation Society  drumming  up enough interest to stop the  wrecking  crews even before  City Hall printed out the necessary paperwork .

It left Marigold Fields to go on as it always had: filled with urban hermits, strange shops, abandoned buildings and vacant walls, a paradise for free runners, skateboarders, and of course, graffiti artists like Mal.

There were plenty of potential canvasses:  crumbling posts, the sides of old warehouses  and apartment buildings ,  unfinished construction sites, but  her favourite spot would always be  the  abandoned alleyways, especially the ones surrounded by walls of  rusting and crumbling  fences. Maybe it was the  fact  that the graffiti there stayed for longer since it was so hard for the sanitation crews to get to, the resemblance to the Isle, or the satisfaction of getting in  there  in the first place.

What she did know was that  working her  old  trade was one of the best ways to  relax and unwind after a stressful day .

Mal walked out of a mom 'n' pop store, a fresh box of high quality spray paint in her arms. She waved goodbye at the old woman behind the counter, before she went around the block and started climbing over a dumpster and to vault the concrete wall behind it.

She was smiling to herself as she landed on the other side, planning out  her artwork for the day , until she realized that someone had  gotten there first , both walls  almost entirely covered in  paint.

The artwork was really quite simple, really. Broad strokes, very general details and forms except for one or two landmarks given special attention so you knew exactly what you were looking at: the Isle of the Lost on one side, and Auradon on the other.

The interesting thing was that the Isle was bathed in light from the afternoon sun, bringing out all the grimy details amidst the lifeless greys and browns, showing off the utter misery and defeat of the humanoid figures shambling about their days, while Auradon was cast in shade, making the bright colours look bland and dull, and difficult to see the smiles, the cheer, and the loving detail put into major landmarks like Castle Beast, London's Big Ben, and the mountains of Olympus.

She wondered who could have done this before she saw him at the other side of the alley, signing his initials with a brush:

N/A

He grabbed his bucket of black paint and was about to cross over to the other side when he noticed her.

All was silent as the two of them spent a few moments staring.

“… Hi Mal...” Dog said. “I'm sorry, was this your spot?”

Mal scowled. “Oh, no, it's fine, you can take it!”

Dog frowned. “Mal...”

“No, seriously: it's _cool_.” Mal spat as she turned around and walked to stack of wooden crates that was her exit. “You just _take_ it.”

“Mal! Please! I can--”

“There's plenty of other spots here!” Mal yelled as she started climbing. “I'll find a new one!”

Dog watched her scale the tower, up until she dropped down on the other side of the wall and out of sight.

Mal took the soonest bus straight back to Auradon Prep. There was a two-person media crew at the waiting shed, interviewing the Islanders that were taking the Adult Education classes the school was offering.

“Did you have any reservations about coming here? I mean, if I was on the Isle for twenty years and I saw all these people half my age that have already gotten their masters', I'd be pretty bummed and just not try. I mean, that's not to say that you can't compete with them, because you totally--”

The reporter stopped trying to dig herself out as the Islander she was interviewing pointed behind her.

She and her cameraman turned around. The former jumped, surprised, while the latter adjusted his lens and got a good angle on Mal.

“Hey, is that thing broadcasting live?” Mal asked.

“Err, no, but--” the reporter said.

“Good enough,” she said as she held her hand out. “Mic!”

Stunned, the reporter dumbly handed over the mic while her cameraman zoomed in on Mal's face, her lips curled into a scowl and her eyes glowing ominously.

“Dog? If you're listening to this, I want you to know that if you really love me, you'll go back to the Isle and _leave me alone!”_

Mal handed the mic back and stormed off to her room, unaware of what she had started, a chain reaction that'd rival the magnitude of Dog's memorable arrival.


	17. The Shadow Council

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL, this update took an entire year to get here. With Descendants 2 renewing my interest, and interested comments long after I initially abandoned this project, I'll get back to it, hopefully for good this time with all the new tools and inspiration I've picked up along the way.
> 
> Chapters will be shorter from now on, by the way, ranging from 1,500 to 2,000 words each. A big contributor to my original fatigue was that each chapter just got way too long, and I was having unrealistic expectations about my progress.
> 
> I'll attempt a once a week update, no set day of the week.

The room was large and circular in shape, two semi-circle tables lined with chairs of various designs, all arranged around a throne on a raised dais. Bright LED bulbs cast everything in a cold, white light, letting nothing hide in darkness or ambiguity, the faces and features of all the occupants cast in sharp relief. They varied greatly in appearance, except for their eyes:

All wizened and aged by time, wisdom, and things no person should ever have to bear witness to.

This was Auradon's Shadow Council, the one government organization that did not appear in the public lists, whose existence was known only to a select few. They were the people that constantly asked themselves the questions:

“What can go wrong _now?_ What will? And what are we going to do about it?”

Preferably, the solutions were discrete and seen to completion _long_ before it becomes a large enough issue to merit the public's attention, but they were amenable to brute force and blatant, often dangerous and questionable measures if necessary.

Their numbers were handpicked from all over Auradon, both before and after the Great Uniting. Spy masters and mistresses; directors of intelligence agencies; beings who had lived for milennia and silently, subtly dictated and guided the destinies of the societies and world around them for their own mysterious reasons; generals and other heads of militaries, both private and state; even former criminal masterminds and heads of powerful organizations who hadn't been too proud to exchange their empires to escape the Isle.

To say that they were a diverse group of many opinions and points of view was an understatement. However, for all their differences, they all managed to reach a consensus or a compromise at some point, delivered by their spokesperson:

Xiao Jing, “The Jade Dragon” and “The Opium Empress” in her past life, living proof that Ruthlessness, Efficiency, and Cunning knew no gender.

Everyone stood up to greet Ben and pay him the proper respects, as he entered the room just after his escort of elite guards. He managed a pitiful smile and a limp wave as he made his way to his second throne.

After he slumped into it, the Council reseated themselves—except for Xiao, who moved from her seat to just before Ben, her beloved tablet in the crook of her arm.

She bowed. “Your highness.”

“Give me the good news,” Ben muttered.

“Islander Rehabilitation success rate remain at 87%, with a 2-3% margin of error. The 7% that _have_ strayed have not done anything serious enough to merit another round of life sentences on the Isle, prolonged imprisonment here exceeding three weeks at the worst, or lawsuits in amounts higher than a few hundred silver dollars, at the absolute worst.

“Economically: losses are down, spending is up, and the surge of new businesses, consumers, and the Islanders' pursuits to raise their standard of living promise to sustain it for decades yet. Waste and inefficiency is down now that demand is so high and visible, and even states like Cinderellasburg are now keenly aware of the environmental effects of their consumption, and are reacting accordingly.

“There are concerns over our agricultural lands and present infrastructures’ capability to sustain this growth, let alone feed our people in the long term, but the loosening of the restrictions on magic, and the innovation the Islanders are spurring should help.”

Ben nodded. “What's the **bad** news?”

“Of the remaining 6%, we fear they are beginning to organize, biding their time gathering resources and waiting for the opportunity to revive their criminal enterprises, if on a small scale for now.”

Ben shot up in his seat. “What?! _How?!”_

Xiao scowled. "We VASTLY underestimated just how creative, resourceful, and determined the Islanders can be. Though we have been accounting for their incredible ability to survive and sometimes thrive with literal table scraps and refuse, we did not realize how _quickly_ they could gain access to larger supply chains, and more worryingly, the funding of independent entities.”

Ben frowned. “Can we track them? Can we stop them from supplying them?” He paused. “Do we even know who they are...?”

Xiao nodded her head sadly. “Even if they were corporate entities, it'd be difficult to outright impossible. Our taxation laws and monitoring are not nearly as strict or thorough as those BGU, given the extreme to outright lack of fraudulent spending, misleading records, or outright evasion. What few discrepancies we have found tend to have no records, presumably due to personal favours between the entities involved, one-time offenses, or just negligence.

“It would also be difficult to open up an investigation without any strong proof of criminal involvement—by which time, we fear that the damage may have already been done. And this isn't even getting into the political repercussions of accusing someone of funding subversives...”

“So we're basically forced to sit here and wait as people from within our borders are helping undermine the security and the peace, possibly overthrow the government and take over the world,” Ben said flatly as he slumped down yet again.

Xiao nodded. “Precisely,” she said. “Speaking from personal experience: thriving legitimate businesses are almost as valuable as more lucrative criminal enterprises—cutting out the money laundry saves _so_ much time and manpower, along with reducing interest from the authorities.”

“ _That's not an encouraging piece of information!”_ Ben cried.

Xiao hummed. “It's our reality, Your Highness. On an encouraging note: we still have full-coverage of most every business transaction that happens in Auradon, even with the influx of Islander activity; if anything, it's even more reliable than before with how much more chatty and prone to gossip the latter are about their indiscretions and anomalies.

“Should someone be attempting large scale movement of resources, or anything else suspicious, we _will_ hear about it.”

“That's great!” Ben said, brightening up. “Should we start outfitting and mobilizing the Royal Guard, or will that overstretch the budget?”

Xiao raised a finger. “I was just about to get to that, Your Highness...”

Ben's face turned gloomy once more. "Let me guess: Dog?”

"Yes: his ability to effortlessly crush, outsmart, and outmaneuver literal armies of our best has given the Islanders great hope that they, too, can slip through the cracks in our defenses, and has the general populace in serious concern over their safety.

“And this is not going into the effect it's had on the political level…” Xiao muttered as she pressed some buttons on her tablet.

One of the projectors on Ben's throne activated, and beamed a screen right before his eyes.

The scene was that of a political rally, somewhere in Bayou de new Orleans from the mostly white and black residents in the crowd, and the odd swamp creature in the mix, the alligators most prominently. On a stage was one Mayor John Mark Sweeney, from the annotations.

“This rally was held just a day after the terror attack in New Hope, but the dissent and the unease has been brewing since Dog's unexpected arrival,” Xiao explained.

The video began to play, in the middle of his speech.

“… But now, my family, my friends, we have been proven wrong, so _very_ wrong!

“The first and last defense against all Evil has been thwarted, for on an invader was not only able to outwit, outmaneuver, and outfight our brave soldiers, he did it all while _vastly_ outnumbered and with _**a frozen tuna**_! Who uses _a frozen tuna_ to fight _literally_ a hundred soldiers at once, and expect to win?

“That invader did, and boy, did he make his point to all of us!”

“My family, my friends, who knows how many more like him lurk among us waiting to strike? Who knows when they will target not our guards, with their swords and their training and their bravery, but innocent, unarmed, helpless civilians? Who knows if the Guards can even protect us?!

“ _ **Who will save us now?!**_ Who will keep our _streets_ safe, our _businesses_ safe, our _children_ _and loved ones_ safe? Who will make sure we can sleep soundly at night, and let us _keep_ our doors unlocked, our windows open, and our arms stretched out in welcome to _all_ visitors?

“My family, my friends… we can save _**ourselves!**_

“We can band together, standing for _us_ , for Auradon, for what is Right and Good in this world! And as your mayor: I will happily throw myself on the front-line for you all! Stand as our vanguard! Be the one who will step forward into this scary, unknown future with my head held up high!”

“My family, my friends: _Sweeney Will Save You!”_

The crowd went into an uproar, crying, whistling, and howling their support for Sweeney. Ben noticed distinctly uncomfortable looking faces from the crowd, folks who were plently scruffy and dressed in similar looking, plainly designed clothes:

Islanders.

He felt a churning in his stomach and shut off the projector himself.

“Psychological profiling, and our digging into his history points that he is most _definitely_ completely honest and well-intentioned in his belief about the impending threat of chaos, crime, and lawlessness. He is even more sure that he is the only person for the job, that his plan won't fail catastrophically, or have far-reaching, unintended consequences.

“In other words, a Messiah Complex.”

Ben sighed, and put his hand to his face. “Nothing's more dangerous than a man on a divine mission...”

“Indeed,” Xiao said gravely. “Let us hope that the rest of Auradon have taken the lessons of Judge Frollo and Paris to heart.”

Ben put his hand down. “Are we really that outmatched in case we have that sort of situation on our hands?”

“No. By our analysis, our guards are doing well enough,” Xiao replied.

“Describe 'Well enough.'”

“Our soliders are mostly incompetent, with only a handful of highly skilled individuals distributed all throughout the states— _but_ the Islanders are more or less in the same situation, which makes us evenly matched.

“Our home advantage in resources, intelligence, and manpower tilt the odds greatly in our favour, so long as the Islanders threatening a relapse into crime remain the minority, and the very worst of them remain imprisoned.

“Retraining and reeducation of our guards to be better prepared for real-life scenarios are well under way, not to mention that the Islanders themselves have been a most unexpected and valuable boon in leads and insider information to potential problems and suspicious activity—no honour among thieves indeed, especially if the minority's actions threaten the all of their ability to stay off the Isle.

“So, your majesty Benjamin, after much research, discussion, and reflection, we of the Shadow Council can confidently say:

“Auradon is **fucked.”**

Ben smiled, before he realized what she'd said and he scrambled in his seat. “Wait, what?! I thought we had a handle on the crime situation with the guards!”

“Technically speaking, we do! But the seeds of Fear have been sown all throughout our dear nation and all our citizens, Auradonian or Islander, and _believe me_ when I say that Fear never let silly things like facts and statistics influence its decisions.

Xiao pointed to one of her colleauges. “As General Woolhearth so aptly put it in our discussions earlier--”

“Buckle up your seatbelt and put on you crash helmet, boys and girls, we're in for a wild ride and there's no tellin' when it will end,” General Woolhearth repeated, grinning underneath his impressive full beard.

Ben frowned, already feeling his eyebags grow darker, and his hair and eyes lose some of their luster. The meeting continued, going into the specifics of their future plans and countermeasures, discussions on how to solve this impending crisis in the short and long term, and getting a handle on the most urgent ones before they worsened still.

Then, the Shadow Council was dismissed, slinking back into the darkness to wherever they stayed, be they penthouse apartments in the highest skyscrapers, nondescript lodgings in the slums, or even alternate dimensions.

Ben retired to his room that night, but he slept not a wink, unable to relax with the burden pressing down on his shoulders…

… One that would only grow more overwhelming as the days passed, starting with the news about a certain public outburst making waves all over Auradon.


	18. Four To Win The War (1 of 3)

7:30PM, roughly an hour-and-a-half after Mal’s now infamous comment.

Kalila strode into a bar/lounge, a trendy, modern, niche establishment where the décor was mostly carefully cultivated flora from all around the states; the furniture was made out of wicker, bamboo, and driftwood; and many of the clients were smoking liquid concoctions with the help of handheld hookahs.

She turned heads as she strode on by in her sandals, breaking some out of passionate debates about choices of literature, films, music, and other forms of entertainment; getting a number appreciative looks, whistles, and compliments; and more than a handful of people taking pictures of her and asking their companions and social media about who she was, and where in the world did she get what she was wearing.

No one made a move to intercept her and speak with her, however, for underneath the expertly applied make-up that concealed the dark rings and the decades’ worth of wrinkles, the silky clothes flowing around her shapely body like mist, and the jewelry that kept her brown-gold hair in an elegant side-plait, they could sense the aura of a woman who had a very, _very,_ _ **very**_ bad day.

If Raven noticed, she didn’t let it show. “Hey, Kali!” she said, waving as Kalila reached her table. “Do you mind if I call you Kali?”

“No, it’s actually quite nice,” Kalila said as she stepped into the chair opposite her. “Quite the step-up from ‘Whore of the Demon Scourge,’ that’s for sure.”

Raven raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Already feeling the effects of being roomed with Dog, huh?”

Kalila squeezed her eyes shut and groaned. _“_ _Yes,_ and please don’t say his name—nickname, pseudonym, _whatever_ —again...”

Raven nodded. “Do you want to talk about it...?” she asked, reaching out and touching Kalila on her shoulder.

Kalila looked Raven dead in her eyes. “Raven, I understand you’re being polite, but _believe me,_ you do _not_ want my day was like,” she said in a calm, even tone.

Raven hummed. “And you assume I wasn’t being serious, too.” She smiled. “I’m your friend, Kali! Or I’d like to be considered as one by you, and friends let friends vent to them when they need it!”

Kalila debated for a moment, before she sighed. “Okay, what the hell: I’ll bite. _O_ _n the condition_ that you don’t get to back out once I start.”

“Good thing I didn’t intend to stop listening until you let it all out!” Raven said, before she sat up and looked interested.

Kalila nodded, before she took a deep breath, and collected her thoughts. “It all started at 4AM, when some _asshole_ burst through our window with a knife to try and cut up Dog, and didn’t realize all that glass would cut HIM up, too...” she started.

She went on to tell of the handful of other intrusions from would-be assassins, recruiters, and reporters for the rest of the early morning, to the point where she, Gareth, and Ted had went on to install a security system to safeguard their things and their room from new break-ins, before the latter two had to leave for their jobs in New Hope.

“Do you know what it’s like to be _so_ out of fucks to give, that when someone breaks into your room and nearly gets his fingers sliced off by a trap made of fishing line, a reel, and a vacuum motor, you actually get bandages to keep him from bleeding all over your stuff, before you tell him which bunk is Dog’s so he can skip the overturning everyone else’s stuff?

“I do. It is _not_ a pleasant state of being, I swear.”

She went on to her attempt to get breakfast, finding out that the other Islanders had put every single conceivable warning on their door, from painting the blood of animals around the frame, carving in symbols for “Danger,” “Doom,” and “Cursed Ground” on the door itself, and hanging a “Beware of Dog” sign that had the silhouette of the animal hastily repainted to resemble the man.

“It used to be I couldn’t walk into a common area without being mobbed by men and women, all wanting me or wanting to be near me, if they weren’t staring at the sidelines jealous or admiring from a distance.

“Now, they can’t get away from me fast enough.

“There’s _always_ a line at the cafeteria, whenever a food truck comes in and we have more than just the usual oats, orange juice, terrible tea, and even worse coffee. People will _fight_ for their place in line, or for someone else’s just for a _chance_ of almost-about-to-expire corned beef hash.

“ _But n_ _ot today_. I had my pick of whatever was on offer, even if I needed to hop across the counter, and get it myself, because no wanted to serve me.”

She regaled Raven about going back up to her room, finding a new would-be intruder writhing in pain in the hall, foiled by the shock trap Ted installed in the doorknob. She stepped over him, and attempted to sleep the rest of the day away in the hopes that she might wake-up, and all of this would be a nightmare.

“Then, I woke up, saw your text asking me to meet up here, because apparently something big has happened to him that you think we can use to our advantage, and realized this _was_ a nightmare, just one I won’t be waking up from, _ever._ ”

Kalila took a deep breath, and sighed heavily. “So, with all _that_ out of the way... what did you have in mind...?” she finished.

“That can wait for later,” Raven said, waving her off. “Do you need a hug...?”

“What I _need_ are several alcoholic drinks, or better yet, a time machine or spell, whatever will let me seduce the admin into giving me _any_ room but 404,” Kalila said. She looked around. “This place _is_ part bar, right?”

“Non-alcoholic, sorry, but the menu’s still really good!” Raven said.

Kalila sighed. “Then I’m sorry to say that it looks like you can’t help lift my mood... shall we get to business?”

Raven sighed and nodded. “Alright… so, just making sure here: you did read the news about what Mal just said about her dad, right?”

“No, I’ve been trying to avoid anything involving him,” Kalila replied. “What happened?”

Raven pulled out her phone, and loaded up the video. Kalila watched, smiling as it ended. “Well, if that isn’t the _best_ news I’ve heard all day! So he’s going back to the Isle, right?”

“ _Kali!”_ Raven cried. “How could you say that about him?”

“Well, there is the fact that he’s been directly responsible for turning my new life here in Auradon into a living hell, just like he did back during the Great Isle War!” Kalila chirped.

“… Okay, yeah, you’ve got a point there! But look at it this way: as unfortunate it is that this happened, this is a _huge_ opportunity for the company to branch into the Islander market, AND launch your career, AND do some good, all at the same time!” Raven said excitedly.

Kalila stared at her, before she groaned. “Raven, _please_ don’t tell me you’re going where I think you’re going with this…”

“If you think I’m going with ‘Make you-know-who your male counterpart for our fashion lines, help convince Auradon that he’s reformed, and play a key role in helping him get back with his daughter,’ then no, I won’t tell you that,” Raven said.

“Are you _shitting_ me right now?!” Kalila snapped. “You _know_ his reputation, don’t you?”

Raven threw out her arms. “Who doesn’t?! But look: the fact of the matter is, he’s the hottest, most searched, and most attention-grabbing personality in Auradon right now, and is going to be for a long time yet! Wherever he goes, whatever he does, so long as it has his name on it, or he’s even remotely connected to the events, people are going to read it, and they’re probably going to want to check out who was with him, and who he’s associated with.”

Kalila crossed her arms. “You realize that there’s a stark difference between the benefits of being famous vs _in_ famous, right…?”

Raven nodded. “I know. Which frankly makes this opportunity even better. The entire ‘Villain Kid’ Rescue Program and the Islander Rescue and Rehabilitation Initiative are _more_ than just long-overdue justice—it’s the biggest redemption story ever told here in Auradon, and believe me, us Auradonians _love_ ourselves our redemption stories!

“I don’t know about you, but the public will absolutely _eat up_ and follow every single minute of a story about one of the most infamous and feared Islanders turning his back on his dark past, fighting the demons of his past to reconnect with his estranged daughter, and find a new, better life here in Auradon…

“… All with the help of his fellow reformed Islanders—like you—and his new native friends, like me!” Raven finished, beaming.

Kalila sighed. “Raven, I hate to break it to you, but men don’t change. _E_ _ver_. I wouldn’t have gotten here—or even survived this long—if I didn’t accept that cold hard reality.

“I get it: you were raised on a diet of stories where love conquers all, good people triumph over wicked folks, and even the most terrible and corrupted souls can change for the better when you show them enough kindness, but me?

“My whole life was a _constant_ lesson that love just isn’t enough, wicked folks fuck over good people with impunity on a daily basis, and putting faith, love, and effort in someone in the hopes that they will _magically_ change for the better just ends in tears, and whole lot of wasted time.

“Sometimes _worse.”_

Raven’s bright and chipper aura dimmed. “Okay. Fine. You’ve got me on that. But still, it won’t hurt to give him a chance, will it?”

“Yes,” Kalila said flatly. “And just so you know, if I end up getting horribly murdered because you tempted fate like that, I’m haunting you and your family for all of eternity.”

“And if I promise I won’t try to have your restless spirit exorcised, or move somewhere where you won’t be able to haunt me or my descendants…?” Raven replied.

Kalila shot her a look, sighed, and shook her head.

Raven reached out and touched her arm. “Come on, Kali: what have you got to lose if you try to help him out?”

“ _My son,_ who I’ve been longing to have back in my arms for 15 years!” Kalila snapped.

“And what will it take to stay with your son?”

Kalila sighed, her shoulders drooping. “Prove I’m ‘dedicated to being a Good, productive, law-abiding citizen of Auradon...’”

“And how are you planning on being gainfully employed right now…?”

“Be a model for your brand,” Kalila replied.

“And why did I recruit you?”

“Because I’m sexy, charismatic, and your in to the Villain market...”

“And can we sell to the Villain market if they see you as a pariah and, I quote, ‘Whore of the Demon Scourge’?”

Kalila scowled. “No.”

“And _how_ big is the bill you racked up which my company considered your advance, and an investment on their part that they want back eventually...?”

Kalila threw her hands up. “OKAY! _FINE!_ I GET IT! I’ll give him a call, and tell him you want to offer him a job. And _just_ that. Happy?”

Raven beamed. “Yes.”

Kalila got up out of her seat, and went to a quiet corner of the bar, where the concoctions they were smoking weren’t particularly offensive to her nose, and called Dog.

Somewhere in Ursula’s Strait, Dog stopped rowing, surprised that he still got reception this far out. “Hello?” he said.

“H..lo, Dog r..ht?” Kalila said, her voice faint and filled with static. “S.it, whe.. a.. you? Re..tion’s terri..e!”

Dog looked around, saw the silhouette of a cell tower off in the distance. “Give me a minute!” he said, before he put his phone down, and started rowing to it. It was going to increase his chances of getting caught by the border patrol, but he had a feeling this was worth the risk.

He looked at his phone, saw the bar go up one, and stopped. “How’s that?” he asked after he pulled the oars back up.

“Still shit, but it’ll work,” Kalila said, audible if he strained to hear, with a few minor losses here and there. “Look, Dog, my friend Raven Hood she says got a business proposal for you, some crazy plan to try and keep you here in Auradon, and get you into your daughter’s good graces.

“If you say yes, I’ll send her your number, and you two can hash out the details.”

Dog blinked. “Sounds good! _Too_ good, actually! What’s the catch?”

“You and me will find out, but trust me: Raven may the daughter of an outlaw but she’s about as kindhearted, generous, and selfless as most Auradonians think they are. So, are you taking it or not?”

“Just one more question: why are you calling me, after the whole ‘leave and never come back’ speech?”

“Business,” Kalila said flatly. “Raven thinks we can use your infamy for profit, hers, yours, and mine. And before you ask, our partnership is going to be _strictly_ professional, you’re still banned from 404, and I’m not _magically_ going to become fine with you, alright?

Dog smiled. “Fine with me; this isn’t exactly the first time a woman’s selfishly used me for personal profit...”

Kalila groaned. “Don’t remind me. Goodbye.”

“Wait! Kalila!”

“ _What...?”_ she snapped.

“Thank you.”

“… Don’t thank me yet, Dog, not until you’ve held up your end of the bargain.”

_Beep._

Dog looked at his phone, then at the Isle on one side of him, then at Auradon on the other. He put it back in his coat pocket, sat down, and thought.

Kalila was just one other person willing to give him a chance besides Ben, and even then, it was clear that she was giving him the barest minimum of goodwill she could muster. Mal still hated him, Auradon feared him, and his fellow Islanders on both sides of Auradon Bay either gave him a wide berth, or wanted to get close enough to stab him to death. There was no guarantee that whatever plan Raven had in mind would help him past basic survival in the long-run, if it didn’t end up backfiring on them entirely…

… But you know what? He was going to take it anyway.

“ _Fear the man who has nothing left to lose, for there is nothing holding him back,”_ Dog thought to himself as he rowed back to Auradon.


	19. Four To Win The War (2 of 3)

8PM, New Hope.

Gareth was standing at the doors of the last bus back to Auradon City, Zelma fussing over him.

“Ya sure you don’t want to stay the night, here, Cap’n?” she asked. “Must be a real fright, having ta sleep in the same room as that man… might even be preferable to have an actual rabid dog than him...”

Gareth smiled as held a packed dinner from her. “Rest assured, Ms. Zelma, I’ve taken care of myself with _far_ worse threats. Should he break his promise to Kalila and attempt to return, I can and will handle him.”

Zelma sighed. “Aye, I believe ye, but then again, that’s what everyone else done in by ‘im said soon before he did...” she muttered.

Gareth patted her on the shoulder. “I’ll be here tomorrow, Ms. Zelma, I promise.”

Zelma smiled ruefully. “I hope so! Would be a shame ta lose you so soon after we just got you...”

“Hey!” the bus driver called out, the door closed. “If you’re not getting on here any time soon, you mind looking for that tiny doctor guy? I’m not waiting here all night for him, and neither are they!” she said, pointing to the rest of the passengers already loaded up.

“Certainly, my good woman!” Gareth replied, before he turned back to Zelma. “Would you happen to have any idea where I might find him?”

Zelma sighed, and pointed behind her. “Probably still in the crap barge; Dave’s already back at the bar, gettin’ drunk and braggin’ about how lucky he is that Teddy let him quit early. Right shame I have to deal with that arse earlier than I usually have to...” she muttered.

“I’ll stay around longer to deal with him, if you need me to, but for now, I must be off to fetch the good doctor. Thank you for the information, Ms. Zelma,” he said, smiling.

“Any time!” Zelma said, smiling back.

Gareth made his way through the quiet bridges and docks of New Hope, saying hello to the few guards out on night duty. Save for Zelma’s brimming with the sounds of chatter and laughter, utensils scraping on plates, and drink glasses clinking and wooden tankards being banged on tables, the town was deathly quiet, now that after-hours restrictions had been instated in the wake of the fuel boat bombing. It was quieter still when he made it to the waste processing plant, only one guard on-duty to sign him in, and give him a much-needed air mask with fresh air filters, with gloves for good measure.

Gareth walked around and called out Ted’s name, until he passed by one of the compost pits and stopped as the surface burbled and moved. He watched as a particularly tiny muck monster with one glowing eye on the top of his head rose from the mess, before he wiped the rotting plant-matter off him and revealed himself to be Ted in a full-body, sealed suit.

“Do you require assistance getting out, Dr. Bearington?” Gareth asked.

“Ugh, that would be _lovely,_ thank you…” Ted replied. “Pray tell, how long was I down there? That repair took _far_ longer than I thought it would...”

“I don’t know, but I do know it’s far beyond time you were ready to board the bus with us and return to Auradon City,” Gareth said as he lifted him out, more fresh compost sloughing off him.

Ted sighed as he made his way to a drain with a hose nearby. “Then please tell the driver to go on without me; I am most certainly NOT returning home whilst smelling of ‘all natural fertilizer,’” he said, before he shuddered.

Gareth nodded, and was about to call one of the other guards by his radio. He stopped as he and Ted noticed the sound of someone slipping and falling to the ground, followed by a faint, muffled cry.

Gareth turned to Ted. “Is anyone else supposed to be here this late at night?” he asked quietly.

“Not by my knowledge, no...” Ted whispered back, frowning underneath his mask.

Gareth followed the noise, till he came upon a woman dressed up in an aquafarmer’s uniform. She hid her surprise well, especially with the mask on her face, but it didn’t take a particularly perceptive person to realize something was up.

He extended his hand, she instinctively crawled back. “Do you need help getting up?” Gareth asked.

“No, no, not at all, Captain!” she said as she quickly scrambled back up. “Just slipped on… something, I’m fine...”

Gareth nodded. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Oh! _Well,_ this is embarrassing, but I’m looking for something valuable my friend might have left behind here earlier! Doesn’t seem to be this place, though, so I was just on my way out, actually!”

“I could look for it for you, you know,” Gareth replied.

“H-Hah...” she muttered, “yeah, I-I don’t think she wants to bother you with something so trivial...”

“You did mention it was ‘something valuable...’”

“Sentimentally! I meant sentimentally!” she added. “Look, I need to _go_ , I’ve got curfew and all!” she paused. “You, uh… you won’t rat me out, will you Captain?”

“No, but _please_ , let me see you to the door… you’ll have to surrender your mask there anyway, right?”

She paled, however slightly. “Sure, lead the way, Captain!”

Gareth marched her back to the entrance, where the guard at duty—Duncan of DunBroch—recognized her. “Emmie! What the hell are you doing in here?” he cried.

“You know her?” Gareth asked.

“We go back a _ways_ , Captain...” Duncan grumbled. “Don’t burden yerself, I’ll take care of her.”

“Thank you,” Gareth said. “And if you don’t mind, please have someone tell the bus to go on without me, or Dr. Bearington.”

“Will do, sir; I’ll ask around for someone willing to take you two home, too.”

“That would be much appreciated, Duncan,” Gareth said, before he headed back inside.

He turned rounded a corner, discretely peered back and saw Duncan looking at Emmie sternly as he talked on his radio. Satisfied, he headed back Ted, escorted him to the showers, and waited until he was done.

“May I ask what that disturbance earlier was, Captain?” Ted asked as he dried his hair, the dark curls popping back out to their usual, out-of-control appearance.

“Someone sneaking about looking for something, allegedly,” Gareth replied. “Might be nothing to worry about, but with recent events, every little bit of mischief can’t help but attract great interest.”

“Oh I don’t know about that, I’m sure it’s something completely innocent, or no crime of note,” Ted said. “And in case it wasn’t obvious, I’m being sarcastic,” he said as he threw his used towel into the used bin.

Gareth frowned. “I never got that, sarcasm,” he said as he and Ted started walking out. “Why would you ever speak the _opposite_ of what you mean for _emphasis_?”

“Because human beings are complex, irrational creatures who do a lot of strange, unproductive, to outright self-destructive things, Captain,” Ted replied.

Gareth nodded. “Onto more pressing matters: would you like a security detail, Doctor? I fear this will only be the first incident, if you continue working by yourself late at night.”

“I’d rather not, honestly,” Ted replied. “You forget, Captain, I’ve been living on the same Isle as you have for the past 20 years. My first defenses may be my wits and over-developed sense of self-preservation, but worst comes to worst, I can run and hide with the best of them.

“For now, let’s step away from the hypotheticals, and onto facts: we don’t have a way back to Auradon City, unless you want to try to make a two-hour drive on foot.”

“I can help with that,” a third voice said.

Ted and Gareth stopped near the entrance of the waste treatment plant, Lt. Rajei standing just outside.

“Captain Gareth, Dr. Bearington,” she said with a nod of her head.

“Lieutenant Rajei,” Gareth said with a salute. “What are you doing here, if I may ask?”

“I overheard that you two needed a ride back to Auradon City,” Rajei said as she walked over to them. “Think of it as my apology for my behaviour, and the tip of the olive branch to you, Gareth. I realize if we’re going to be working together for as long as this project is running, it would be best if are civil with one another,” she said as she extended a hand.

Gareth nodded, smiling as he took it and shook. “Agreed, Lieutenant, and I appreciate the gesture. Any objections, Dr. Bearington?”

Ted looked uneasily at Rajei, then back at Gareth. He did a quick debate in his head, before he shrugged. “I suppose a ride home’s a ride home…” he said.

Rajei hummed. “Meet me at the entrance, then—the only squad car here always needs digging out of the mud, for how long it goes between uses,” she said as she turned around and left.

“Understood,” Gareth said. “Oh, and Lieutenant?”

Rajei turned around. “What is it?”

“What would you happen to know about an aquafarmer called ‘Emmie’?”

“Ermingrad of the Isle? Brown hair, calm disposition that cracks quickly under pressure, constantly scurrying about where she shouldn’t be?”

“Yes, her exactly.”

Rajei sighed. “She’s a nuisance of mine. Smuggler BGU, ‘requisitions officer’ for Maleficent AGU, and now she helps facilitate this town’s contraband market as a courier. Unfortunately, she doesn’t deal in anything more serious than cigarettes, pornography, and the odd recreational drug, which is why Lady Evie refuses to let me evict her.

“Why do you ask?”

“I found her scurrying about inside earlier, and left her with Duncan after I walked her out,” Gareth replied.

Rajei’s eyes widened in alarm, before groaned. “I’m letting this go for now because I haven’t had time to brief you yet, but the next time you surrender one of my headaches to the guard she bribes to look the other way? I won’t be as merciful, Gareth.”

Gareth hung his head. “My apologies, Lieutenant.”

“Just don’t let it happen again _, Captain,”_ Rajei growled, before she turned around, and stalked off.

* * *

Some time later, they were on the road back to Auradon in the New Hope Guard’s jeep, Rajei driving, Ted in the passenger seat, and Gareth taking up most of the back. For a while, it was quiet but for the sound of the cicadas buzzing and the radio’s quiet hum as it attempted to pick up official guard transmissions, until Gareth broke the silence.

“Lieutenant?” he asked.

Rajei didn’t look back. “Yes, Gareth?”

“May I ask how the investigation of the fuel boat explosion is going?”

“No, Gareth, and no amount of wheedling or begging is going to make me change my mind,” Rajei replied. “For one, you’re not trained in the proper protocols of an investigation, two, you’re not authorized to make an arrest unless you catch someone right in the middle in the act, like actually trying to set fire to a fuel tank, and three, unlike the Isle, and we here at Auradon are _very_ insistent the rules are followed during the pursuit of justice.

“As a former knight yourself, I’d have expected you to understand that last one. Or has twenty years on the Isle eroded all your training?” she said, looking at Gareth through the rearview mirror.

The air grew tense for a moment, Ted quietly slunk further down in his spacious seat, bringing his head below the level of Rajei’s shoulders.

Rajei turned back to the road, Gareth sighed. “I will admit I am more than rusty, especially with so much of Auradon being alien to me…” he said. “… But still, I remember that sometimes, to enforce the law, protect the peace, and defend the people, you have to _break_ the rules.”

Rajei’s driving slowed. “Dr. Bearington, watch the road for me, please,” she said. Ted reluctantly sat up and looked out at the deserted dirt road in front of them and the lights of Auradon City in the distance, as she looked in the rear-view mirror.

“Did any of the other guards tell you how I got stationed in New Hope?” Rajei asked.

Gareth shook his head. “No, they mentioned it was a topic to avoid with you, unless you yourself bring it up.”

“Well, good to see _some_ of my orders are being followed!” Rajei said, before her face turned serious once more. “I was just like you, Gareth, before I was stationed here. Cocky, passionate about my job, raring to go at the slightest hint of wrongdoing, dreaming of busting down doors, and busting the crimes going down behind them.

“I thought that protocol was only slowing us all down, that the Royal Guard is struggling so much because we sweat and bleed over paperwork more often than we do in the field. That when it really came down to it, I’d make like one of the heroes of old and bust a major crime, crack a mystery, unveil an insidious plot and unravel it before it could reach its deadly fruition.

“Then I learned that bravado without brains, disrespecting the rules, and thinking that fate chose you for some divine mission is the surest way for all your achievements to go down the drain, turning you from a notable fresh graduate rising through Agrabah’s ranks to a disgrace in charge of a smelly swamp somewhere out near Auradon City.

“Do you really want to help me, solve this mystery, and find your terrorist, Gareth?

“Then keep out of trouble, see what you can dig up using _legal_ methods, and above all, follow the rules. The villagers seem to like you more than they ever did me, so why don’t you go befriend some of them, see what sort of information they might share with you?

“If nothing else, you can take their pettier concerns from me, and let me focus on keeping New Hope floating, literally and figuratively.”

Gareth turned his eyes down, and nodded. “I understand, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, Gareth,” Rajei replied, her face still stern as always as she turned back to the road.

“… Err, Lieutenant?” Ted asked.

“Yes, Dr. Bearington?” Rajei replied flatly.

“Since you two were going on about the issues plaguing the town, may I throw my own onto the pile?”

“Is it a matter of that security system Lady Evie wants you to build?”

“No, but it came about as I was attempting to lay down the foundations for it with Dave, and discovered that most of the town’s infrastructure is falling apart.”

Rajei gritted her teeth. “Write a report at your soonest convenience, Dr. Bearington, and I’ll make sure it gets sent to Lady Evie.”

“How bad is it?” Gareth asked.

“Let me put it this way: if hadn’t met the man, seen him in action, and had consistent accounts of his lackluster work ethic from every single one of the townsfolk I’ve met, I’d start raising the probability of intentional sabotage.”

Rajei shook her head. “Typical Dave… some unsolicited advice for the both of you: start looking for new jobs. Lady Evie has been keen to keep the numbers to herself, but with replacing the fuel boat and all the gas inside, the materials and the work for Bearington’s security system, and fixing up Dave’s fuck-ups, the government grants and investments are probably going to start thinking of cutting their losses and pulling out the next time she sends them a financial report.”

“But what of her grade, her Sustainable Castle Planning class?” Gareth asked.

“Then she fails, what else?” Rajei replied. “Not every project and endeavour makes it to completion, Gareth.”

“Had failures not been as many as they are, we would not sing so much praise about the few that succeed...” Ted muttered.

“Exactly,” Rajei said.

Gareth looked over his shoulder, at the untamed mangroves they were leaving behind, the blinking light of New Hope’s one cell tower peaking out through the canopy like a lighthouse.

Would he lose his new home, so soon after he arrived…?

He turned back to the road, a look of grim determination on his face. He’d already lost two homes to forces beyond his control—first, there was his birthplace, all because he had been blinded by his passion and sworn loyalty to the Evil Queen, second, when his faith in her had amounted to nothing but personal ruin and a daughter he could not see, could not speak to, could not had known he even was her father until now.

New Hope was **not** going to be his third—not while he had anything to say about it.


End file.
